Archive of Our Own

Dr. Langdon's car smells vaguely of what she assumes is his cologne and Goldfish crackers, as evidenced by the empty snack-sized bag that lies between the two car seats in the back.

Mel's eyes roam over the rest of the cabin, taking in the crumbs in the cup holder, the half-empty bottle of Gatorade. It's not what she would consider messy, really. (Well, except maybe for the crumbs, but she’ll keep that to herself.) The assorted toys and stray baseball cap in the floorboard of the back, the streak of mud along the inside of the passenger door, she finds, are all proof of a well loved, frequently utilized space.

He climbs into the driver's seat and tosses his bag into the back without looking, allowing it to fall wherever it may. Once his seatbelt is clicked into place, he lets out a slow breath. A hand runs through his dark hair, and if she didn't know better, she'd think he looks a little sheepish.

"Sorry about the, uh, mess. I've been meaning to clean, but haven't gotten around to it."

"It's lived in, Dr. Langdon. That isn't a bad thing."

"Right." He nods once, then again. Shifting his gaze over to her, he asks, "Ready to go?"

Her fingers trace along the outer edge of her seatbelt. The time on the car's screen reads 10:37, and there's a slight pounding behind her eyes, likely a combination of stress, spending fifteen hours under the emergency department's fluorescent lighting, and the small knot that's likely still hidden beneath the hair on the back of her head.

"Beyond ready." Then, as he pulls out of the parking space and navigates through the parking garage, heading in the direction of the exit three floors down, she adds, "Thank you again, by the way. You really, and I mean really, didn't have to do this. But I do appreciate it."

He flips the turn signal on, the low click of it echoing in the quiet space. The corner of his mouth tilts upward in a small smile as he tells her, "I know, Mel. It's no problem. Really, you're not that far from where I am."

Stubbornly, she argues, "I don't believe that, Dr. Langdon."

Something in her gut pulls at the low laugh that emits. "It doesn't matter, Dr. King. I'm taking you home anyway." Mel hums in response.

"I just feel bad, I guess. I don't want you to feel like, I don't know, that you have to take care of me, or something. You have a family to get home to, and you've been at work for the past fifteen hours. You should be on your way home, not taking a—" She stops before settling, painfully, on, "a stranger home before you go home yourself."

Mel doesn't know what response she's expecting, but it isn't the low, deep laugh she hears. Her head shoots up, and she turns to look at Dr. Langdon, shaking his head as he laughs. It isn't a mean, teasing sort of laugh. Surprised, maybe. She doesn't get the feeling that he's laughing at her, not like people do sometimes.

"A stranger, really?"

The car rolls to a stop at a red light downtown. There's a motorcycle in front of them, and groups of people walk along the sidewalk, likely navigating their way to their cars, heading home after the fireworks show.

"Well, I mean. Today was the first day we worked together in ten months, and we only worked together once before this. So, for all intents and purposes, I'd say—"

"Mel." He turns to look at her, and she tries not to cower under his gaze. She's never felt the need to look away from him before, but being alone with him in an unfamiliar space, away from the chaos of the ER, is different. "You're not a stranger."

"I'm not?"

"No," he says, shaking his head. "If anything, I'd say we're friends."

Mel swallows against a familiar thickness in her throat, his words surprising her. She can't remember the last time someone called her their friend. Sure, she's had coworkers, and classmates. She's had her sister.

It's been a while since she's been someone's friend.

"Oh."

The light turns green, and the engine rumbles as he presses his foot on the gas. Mel glances out the window to her right, blinking a few times. Her eyes are wet, and she feels a little silly for it, if she's being honest. When she doesn't say anything else, Dr. Langdon nudges her arm that rests against the center console with his own a few moments later.

"You okay over there? You went quiet on me."

"Yes. Yeah. I'm fine, really." She nods, probably overcompensating a little. Her fingers toy with the strap of her bag, and she decides to be honest with him, her friend. "It's just been a while. Since, um— Since I've had an actual friend."

"Well," he starts, sucking in a breath. His fingers tap lightly at the steering wheel. "If it helps, I can't tell. You're a pretty great one."

Mel tilts her head, then asks quietly, "Joke?"

"No, Mel. Not a joke."

"Well, in that case, you're a good one, too."

She's glad he considers her a friend, too, despite the short time they've known each other. She could use someone like him in her corner, she thinks.

They ride in mostly silence for the rest of the fifteen minute drive until he pulls to the curb in front of her place. She's fighting sleep by the time he puts the car in park, and would gladly stay put if it were reasonable, but it's not. Neither of them say anything for a few moments, until she undoes her seatbelt and sits up more fully, preparing to reach for the handle on the door.

Mel looks back at him. His head's leaned back against the headrest and he's watching her with a careful gaze, the lights from the dashboard illuminating him in the dark. Fireworks sound from nearby, and a group of teenagers meander down the sidewalk, laughter loud enough that it carries through the car.

A sinking feeling hits her and she has to ask, "I'll see you tomorrow, right?"

He's quick to answer despite his tired eyes. "Bright and early."

She smiles wide, doesn't even care to tamper it down as relief floods through her at the confirmation. The brief, torturous thought of having to go another unknown period of time without seeing or speaking to him made her feel a little sick.

"Well," she says, opening the door slightly. Light fills the cabin, but she doesn't make a move to get out yet. "Thank you again for the ride, Dr. Langdon. Really."

"Not a problem, trust me. Thank you for letting me."

"I don't think it makes much sense for you to thank me for that."

He hums in acknowledgment before declaring, "Maybe not, but still. I'll see you tomorrow, Mel."

She steps out of the car, pats herself down to make sure she has everything. Standing on the curb with a hand on the outer part of the doorframe, she bids him goodnight. "See you tomorrow, Dr. Langdon."

He doesn't pull away from the curb until after she's safe inside her apartment, the lamp that sits in the corner near the front window flipped on.

It's nice, she thinks, being cared for by someone.

Even if it is her married coworker with whom she's worked for less than thirty hours across a ten month span of time.

-

The second time he offers her a ride home, several weeks later, is after a long, unusually slow shift that has her on the verge of plucking her hair out, strand by strand. They've worked together several times a week since he was reinstated, and slowly, Mel has come to accept that he's not just a coworker; not in the way that Santos, or Whitaker, or Dana are her coworkers.

Dr. Langdon is her coworker, sure, but he's also become her friend. Kind of her best friend, really, though she isn't sure she would admit that to him just yet.

Rain trickles down the windshield as they pull out of the parking garage. His car is neater than last time and she assumes he must have finally gotten around to cleaning it.

"Music?" he asks, gesturing to the infotainment system. She wrinkles her nose at the thought, not sure the radio stations would be playing anything sufficient, and not yet comfortable enough to expose her own Spotify library. The idea of sharing her favorite songs with people has always felt weirdly intimate.

"The rain's kind of nice to listen to, honestly."

"Yeah, it's not bad," he reasons. Shrugging, he adds, "A hell of a lot better than Baby Shark. My daughter's latest obsession, in case you were wondering."

"Oh yeah?" She smiles. He's talked about his kids a lot the past several weeks, showed her pictures during one of their short-lived breaks spent in the ambulance bay between patients. "Penny, right?"

"Yeah, that's right. She's…a firecracker, honestly. You'd love her."

"I'm sure I would," Mel reasons. "I love kids. Plus, if she's anything like you, I'm sure she's great. Because, well, obviously I think you're, uh, pretty great." Her sentence ends on a much quieter note than it began, and she can feel the beginnings of a flush high in her cheeks. Thankfully it's too dark for him to tell.

Mel swallows, turning to look out the window. He doesn't respond right away, and she thinks she's said too much, that she's made things awkward, and will probably have to spend the rest of the evening staring, desolate, at the wall across from her couch, too upset to do anything else.

"For the record," he says, clearing his throat. She chances a glance over at him, and he's watching her out of the corner of his eye, still facing the red light they're stopped at. "I think you're pretty great, too, Mel. I tell you that almost every day, if you haven't noticed." He shakes his head. "In school, my friends always said I was a Grade-A suck-up. I guess that still stands."

"You…suck up to me?"

"Maybe not in so many words." He huffs a laugh, then shrugs, as they begin driving again. The Honda in front of them is going unreasonably slow, but Mel doesn't really mind. It just means more time with him. "You're my favorite resident, Mel. That's no secret."

"Well, good," she says, trying to tamper down her emerging smile. She can feel the heat in her cheeks and is thankful the dim light is enough to hide it from him. "You're my favorite, too," then, in attempt to keep the professional wall in place, she tacks on a quick, "Dr. Langdon."

He's quiet for a moment, but there's a wide grin on his face when she glances over at him.

"Good to know."

It echoes in the small space, reverberating through her before it settles deep in her chest.

Mel's never had an easy time making friends, others frequently finding her off-putting. It's not unusual for her to think she's made a friend, only to discover they were merely placating her when it comes time for her to seek them out. Silences are awkward, often painful for her, and she usually finds herself attempting to fill them, or worse, run from them. Being around Dr. Langdon doesn't make her feel that way.

He isn't placating her or merely entertaining her, nor is he biding his time until someone better comes along. If he walks away from her, he makes it a point to tell her so she doesn't turn around only to be disappointed when he isn't there. Mel likes that about him, appreciates his honesty with her.

He also laughs at her jokes, but not in a 'Ha, this isn't actually funny, I'm just awkwardly laughing along so you don't feel bad,' sort of way. Last week, during a short break spent sitting across the table from each other in the break room, she made him laugh so hard the water he was drinking came out through his nose. Usually, Mel would find it a little gross, but the sight only further endeared him to her. She still prides herself on it, in fact.

"Thank you again, by the way. You really don't have to make a habit of this."

"Right, of course," he says. Then, not unkindly, but firm, he tells her, "You don't have to make a habit of telling me I don't have to do it, either. I really don't mind."

Mel hums in acknowledgement. He flips the turn signal on as they come to a rest two red lights from her street. Maybe it's courage, or maybe it's that she knows her time with him is coming to an end for the evening, and she's going home to a dark, quiet apartment to stew in her loneliness while he goes home to his wife and children, to love and to sticky hands. Either way, one of the two compels her to tell him, practically whispered over the radio playing on low and the air blowing from the vents, "I really appreciate you, Dr. Langdon. Work is…it's a lot better with you there, so, um. Yeah. Thank you."

She can feel him staring at her and knows it's the case when the light turns green and the car doesn't move from where they're sat. The car behind them honks and he jumps, turning to face forward and pressing his foot on the gas. He clears his throat.

"It goes both ways, Mel. Believe me."

-

Over the course of a twelve hour shift, it becomes increasingly obvious when Frank's in a bad mood. He clenches his jaw, for one. Constantly, to the point that Mel worries for his teeth and wonders if maybe she should offer him some sort of fidget toy he can focus on squeezing instead. The second tell is that he has less patience than usual, becoming snappy with Dr. Robby, other residents, and especially med students that can't quite keep up, however seasoned or new they may be.

Despite having a bad day, he doesn't usually turn his anger or frustration on Mel, though, is the thing. No matter the hard cases, or frustrating patients, or stubborn coworkers that piss him off, he treats Mel with the same careful patience and kindness as always.

Today was an anomaly.

He was on edge from the time he came to stand beside Mel during handoff. Dr. Shen was busy recounting the last hour spent caring for an elderly woman with suspected carbon monoxide poisoning. Usually Dr. Langdon offers her a smile or nudges her with his elbow to alert her to his presence, her chest warm and bubbly at the sight of him, even if it is seven in the morning.

Not this morning, though. She could tell something was different in the rigidness of his spine, the way his jaw was clenched despite the small half-smile he offered her. Mel gave him a smile of her own, nudging his elbow with her own the way she often does.

It came to a head when they were in the middle of a trauma, the patient's vitals moving steadily in a downward trend. The room was hot, packed to the brim with other doctors, nurses, and members of the respiratory team. Mel hesitated for a moment too long.

His words were clipped, his voice louder than usual. It wasn't as obvious as his behavior towards some of the others, maybe, but the change was obvious to Mel. As soon as the patient was stable, he turned in her direction, likely meaning to apologize, but she was already darting out of the room.

His car is quiet this evening, neither of them reaching for the radio. October brought with it a chill in the air, and he doesn't hesitate to turn the heat on, flipping one of the center vents toward her. He knows she runs cold. She whispers a simple, "Thanks," but he only hums in acknowledgment, his mouth set in a tight line.

Mel traces a finger along the knee of her pants, an old pair of blue jeans nearly worn out in the thighs. She ponders how best to approach the situation and decides that, more than anything, what she wants to know is how her friend is doing.

"Are you okay?"

When he answers, after a stilted silence in which Mel's left wondering whether he heard her in the first place, it's in a low voice, almost unsure.

"I don't, uh, really know how to answer that."

"Okay," she says. Then, because she isn't sure what else to say, adds, "That's okay."

He runs a hand through his hair. "I know I've been in a shitty mood today, and I'm— God, Mel, I shouldn't have snapped at you. Of all the people to take my shit out on, you don't deserve it."

"We all have bad days, Dr. Langdon, it's—"

"Don't say it's okay. It's not okay, Mel."

"We all have bad days, it isn't a moral failing."

"Not a moral failing," he repeats, incredulously, before following with a defeated, "No, everything else I've done is a fucking moral failing. My life's a goddamn mess, and every time I think it's looking up and I'm on the right track, it's on the verge of falling apart again."

Mel doesn't know what to say, isn't sure of how to bring him comfort or assurance when he's spiraling like this and worries any potential response in her head might make things worse, so she stays silent. Instead, she reaches for his hand where it rests against the center console and covers it with her own.

The car rolls to a stop in front of her apartment and he shifts into park. His head hangs low, the usual stubborn pieces of hair falling over his forehead. He doesn't bother pushing them back.

"I'm doing everything I can," he says in a low voice, shaking his head. "I go to NA meetings four times a week, sometimes more. I pick up extra shifts to help pay off the shit ton of debt rehab put me in. I try to be a good dad."

"You are a good dad."

"Maybe," he agrees, though not happily. "Sometimes, yeah."

Mel reaches over to squeeze his hand once, reminding him that she's there. (Now, always). He's harder on himself than he has any right to be, always teetering on the edge of self-loathing even on his best days. She wishes it were possible for him to see himself the way she does.

"All you can do is try," she reasons. "Even if it isn't enough, sometimes it's the best you can do."

He hums, wiping a hand down his face before turning his head to look at her. It only lasts for a brief moment before he's looking away, gaze fixed once again on the car parallel parked in front of them. His next words are simple, straightforward. A little dry, maybe, with a tinge of hurt laced between them.

"Tell that to the divorce papers lying on my kitchen table."

Mel's mouth opens as if to speak, only to close without any noise escaping. A weight has settled on her chest, burrowing deep within her ribcage, and oddly, her eyes prick with tears. The thought of him hurting, of having to deal with the future court dates and potential custody battle, not to mention having to navigate parenthood anew as a single father, fills her with dread.

When she does speak, her hands tightly clasped around his where it lay against the center console, it's a broken, "Oh, Frank."

He shakes his head, blowing out a slow breath. "No, you don't— It's okay."

Except she knows him better than that, can see in the drooping of his shoulders, the bowing of his head, just how much it isn't okay. It's silly, probably, but sometimes she can't help but think of him as an extension of herself, able to anticipate his words, his actions, as easily as she does her own.

She knows when he's in physical pain, can tell when his back is aching halfway through a shift, his steps slower, his face pinched. She can tell when he's holding back tears, the rigidness evident in his jaw, his eyes somehow becoming even more painstakingly blue beneath the pool of tears on their surface.

Over the time they've spent working together, in the encyclopedia of Frank Langdon, she's become an expert.

"It's not okay," she tells him. "Not if you're upset about it. And I know you might not be ready to talk about it exactly, but, um. I'm here. Whenever you are. Ready to talk about it, that is."

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head, and when she glances up at him, he's smiling. It's shaky, and it doesn't quite reach his eyes the way a smile usually does, but it gives her butterflies nonetheless.

"Even if I decide I'm ready to talk about it at two in the morning, after you've worked a fifteen hour shift, and have to be up in three hours for another one?"

Mel tilts her head, eyes narrowing as if considering the answer.

"Yeah," she settles on, as if it were ever really a question. "Especially then."

-
"Dr. Langdon!"

Mel watches as Becca tosses her bag into the backseat, grinning wide at the man in question. He half-turns, waving hello with the hand that isn't resting against the steering wheel.

"You know, Becca. You can call me 'Frank," if you want." His gaze lands on Mel and she can't help but smile, ducking her head as he continues with a lighthearted, "My friends usually do."

Becca's nose wrinkles as she fastens her seatbelt. "Why do your friends call you that? Do they not like you?"

"Well, if they're my friends, I would think they do." He turns, shifting the car into drive as an impatient F-150 pulls up uncomfortably close to his rear bumper. He tilts his head as he asks, "Mel, do you like me?"

"Well, I—"

Becca takes it upon herself to stop Mel as she answers for her with a resounding, "Duh."

There's a smug look on his face that Mel refuses to think about for too long, instead opting to twist in her seat, giving her sister a stern look. Or, at least, what she hopes counts as stern.

"Why 'duh?'"

"Because you do like him. You talk about him more than I talk about Adam."

"I— No, that's an exaggeration, and besides, Adam's your boyfriend. You definitely talk about him more." Mel shakes her head, turning to look at Frank instead as she insists, "It's not true."

"Adam's my boyfriend, and yet…"

Mel tries to argue, feeling slightly petty now, but Becca's putting her AirPods in and turning her music on, so it's a moot point. She huffs, turning around in her seat. Frank adjusts the volume on the radio, pitching it slightly lower.

"You know," he starts, looking over at her as they turn onto the main road. "I wouldn't mind if it were true."

Mel looks down at her lap, the weight of his gaze enough to make her squirm. She's focused on her fingers, twisting them together and then separating them in her usual rhythm.

Voice low, scared for what it might sound like if she tries for any louder, she mumbles a simple, "Noted," though she can't tamper down the smile playing on her lips.

"How are things with Adam?" he asks, low enough that Becca can't hear over the music she has playing.

"They're okay." Mel nods. "They're great for Becca, but as far as myself…I mean, I'm glad she's happy. That's what matters."

"It's good that she's happy, Mel, but your feelings matter, too. How do you feel about it? Without the sugarcoating bullshit."

Mel takes a deep breath, considering. She has a habit of only considering the other people in her life. It isn't a new issue in the slightest, in fact, her mother told her from a young age that it was important for her to consider Mel, too. Her feelings matter. She tries frequently to remind herself, but it's easier said than done.

"I'm kind of, um, sad about it." She swallows. Before she can wallow in it, she continues, "I miss her, and I miss when it was just the two of us, but I know where we're at now is healthier. We—Or, well, I guess I was too codependent before. I don't know. It's fine, I'll get used to it eventually."

"Mel," he says, and she thinks he sounds a little disappointed. "You will get used to it, obviously, but that doesn't mean you can't feel sad or upset about it. I wish you'd— never mind, actually."

Except, no. Selfishly, she wants him to finish his sentence.

"You wish I would…"

"I just wish you would learn to be a little bit nicer to yourself, I guess."

Mel blames the rolling of her eyes on the fact that she didn't sleep well last night, and that she starts her first of three night shifts in a row tomorrow. She's in a weird mood, and they're discussing a sensitive topic. Her patience never wears thin with Frank, even on the most difficult of days, so that has to be why. Of course it is.

"That's rich coming from you, of all people."

He turns to look at her, his face pinched in confusion, maybe offense. Mel, usually not one to shy away from eye contact with him, makes the rare decision to avert her gaze, instead focusing on her lap, the stray hair she finds stuck to her pants.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Mel can hear the tinny noise of music playing from Becca's earphones. She can't make out the words, or even exactly what the tune is, but she can tell it's something upbeat. She wishes she, too, were instead focused on a song, or an audiobook, or quite literally anything aside from the tense silence that's settled between herself and her coworker-slash-best friend.

"It's just," she starts, then stops herself, suddenly unsure. Her eyes blur, and she begs any higher power willing to take pity on her to not let her cry. "You're not exactly easy on yourself either, is all. Sometimes I wish you could see yourself through my eyes."

He's quiet, and she thinks she's overstepped, or said something wrong until he finally asks, "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She shrugs, smiling when she meets his eyes. "You're kind of my favorite person, not counting Becca."

"I can handle second place." He nods, reaching for her hand where it rests against her thigh, his skin warm when his fingers wrap around her own. "As long as you can handle a very close third place, behind Tanner and Penny."

"I think I can deal with that."

He lifts her hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of it. Her stomach does a weird flip in response, and she shoves the feeling inside the box in her mind that's clearly labeled 'DO NOT TOUCH.'

"I was hoping you'd say that."

- 

Despite her urge to deny it outwardly, Mel can admit that there's something brewing between she and Frank, if only to herself. 

It sits, thinly veiled beneath lingering looks and words spoken with double meanings, working its way beneath the infinitesimal cracks in the otherwise solid foundation of their friendship. 

She likes to think he knows it's there, too, but doesn't delude herself. He's working through a divorce, slowly but surely, which seems to be going well, but he and Abby are yet to agree on a solid custody schedule. He has a lot going on, both of them work busy schedules, and so she settles for the safest, most stable choice — the friendship she knows and loves. 

Except it isn't really settling. He's her person, no matter the circumstance or status of their relationship to one another. 

She notices something's off near the end of their shift, when he pulls McKay onto a case rather than Mel. It's not unsual, exactly, they don't work every case together. She knows it's best to try and work with as many coworkers as one can, for interpersonal relations as well as learning opportunities, but it's easy for her to drift toward Frank more frequently than others, and she knows he feels the same way. 

Which is why it's surprising that, though she's standing close by and looking for another case to jump onto, he chooses to ask Cassie instead. He offers Mel a smile and tells her he'll see her in a bit before turning in the direction of South 18, and then he's gone. She shrugs it off and chooses to busy herself with a fractured wrist, because it isn't all that weird, but she can't help the sinking feeling that settles in her gut nonetheless. 

When she climbs into the passenger seat of his car at the end of their shift, he greets her with a simple, "Hey," and she ducks her head, trying to tamper down the heat she can feel blossoming across her face. It was silly of her to assume something was wrong, obviously. Quick to jump to the worst of conclusions, Mel half-assumed she would walk out to his usual parking spot and find it empty, except there he was, waiting for her as he has every other time. 

"Hi." She places her bag in the floor behind his seat and reaches to buckle her seatbelt. His hand lingers on the gearshift, engine idling with a low hum. He taps a gentle rhythm with his finger. 

"Ready?" 

Mel nods, then asks how his day was. The caseload they see in the ED ebbs and flows, but it never ceases. Even a slow day is typically a chaotic one. She knows he worked on a trauma involving a motorcycle versus ped early this morning, heard the outcome wasn't great. They talked about it afterwards, when she found him in the break room. 

She always finds him, and he, her. 

Mel can't help but notice the rhythm he taps against the steering wheel, occasionally pivoting to his pant leg. The hand he runs through his hair until the strands become untamed, falling across his forehead. He's focused on the road, yet simultaneously seems to be miles away. 

"Okay," Mel says, releasing a breath. "Something's wrong." 

"What?" he asks, turning to look at her. They roll to a stop, traffic light changing from yellow to red. He shakes his head, eyes wide. "No, seriously, nothing's wrong. I'm good." 

"Frank," she insists. "I know you, and I know that you've been a little…off, at least with me." Scared to know the answer, she asks, "Did I do something? I know sometimes I speak before I think, and I say things that aren't necessarily appropriate, although I have trouble realizing when that happens. If I said something to offend you, please just tell me, I promise—" 

"Mel, please."

"—I'll fix it, I'll apologize. Whatever it takes to make things right. I mean, I must have done something. Why else would you ask McKay when—"

"Mel." 

"—I was right there? We can't work every case together, but I mean, I was actively looking for something to work on. You looked right at me, and then you just—"

"Mel," he says, strained, as though speaking her name physically pains him. "I'm in—" 

The light turns green and they begin to move again just as Frank phone rings, a shrill noise that startles them both. He curses, reaching to answer it. She's breathing heavy, hands shaking where they lay in her lap. Telling herself his earlier behavior was a nonissue didn't work, clearly. 

He pulls over to talk to the person on the other end— Abby, she thinks— and, once parked haphazardly against the nearest curb, he reaches over, first squeezing her thigh as she meets his eye, then slowly enclosing his hand around hers. His skin is warm, albeit a little clammy (he still sweats a lot), but his touch is firm, steady. Welcome, as it always is. 

"Yeah, sure. No, you know I don't mind. Be there soon." 

"Everything okay?" Mel asks, sitting up a bit straighter. Really, she'd like to ask him to finish his earlier sentence, the unfinished words leaving her on edge. She's never been a fan of cliffhangers in fiction, much less the real life equivalent. 

"Yeah, I just have to pick up the kids. Abby's stuck at some work event and the sitter can't stay over, so." He shrugs, shifting the car into drive and pulling back onto the road. "Should probably head that way after I drop you off." 

"Oh." She swallows. "Well, I mean. Wouldn't it be more convenient to pick them up first? I mean, if— That is, if you're okay with me meeting them. It's just that I know it would be more of a hassle to drop me off, then cross town to pick them up, then turn back around to go to your place. It would be easier to pick them up first, probably. Or not. Whatever you think is best." 

Frank's quiet for a moment, contemplating. Mel picks at a string hanging from her shirt and briefly wonders how it got snagged. The steady click of the turn signal fills the silence.

"Yeah," he agrees, then. "Yeah, you're right. It would be easier, and for the record, I'm definitely okay with it, Mel. You meeting them."

She smiles, wide and unapologetic, her eyes likely wrinkling at the corners in the same way her mother's always did. Sometimes, if she looks in the mirror for a second too long, she thinks she can see her mom staring back at her. Those times, she chooses to stay there, inspecting herself, if only so she can miss the woman who birthed her a tiny bit less for a few fleeting moments. 

"Oh." She tries not to sound too excited. "You really don't mind?" 

"Of course not." He glances over at her, eyes bright despite the twelve hour shift he's just come off of. His next words are spoken softly, almost shy, so unlike his usual cadence. "You're important to me, Mel. You know that, right?" 

Mel swallows, her mind reeling despite the simplicity of his words. She can't help but wonder what he was planning to say earlier, before he was interrupted. She doesn't dare ask. 

Instead, she tells him, "I know." 

When Tanner and Penny clamber into the back, fighting Frank as he attempts to wrangle them into their seats, their earlier conversation dissolves with the laughter Mel can't hold back. The kids are running on sugar from ice pops had earlier in the afternoon and the joy only childhood can bring, and Mel immediately adores them. It helps that they so closely resemble their dad. 

"Who are you?" Tanner asks, holding his Spider-Man action figure tight against his chest as though Mel's an intruder set out to rob him of it. 

"It's okay, buddy" he says, finally buckling Penny in. She's brushing her hand along the top of her baby doll's head, a miniature diaper bag filled with doll-sized accessories plopped into the space between her and Tanner. "This is my friend Mel, she works with me. Can you guy be super duper nice and say hi to her for me?" 

"Hi, Mel," Tanner says, loosening his grip on the toy. She can't help but notice his shoes are Spiderman, too. 

"Mel," Penny says, removing her attention from the doll in her lap. Her hair is a mess, dark tendrils falling into her face. She brushes them back, somehow only making it more of a mess. "You're really pretty, like 'Punzel. Do you save lives like Daddy?" 

"Yeah, he's like a superhero," Tanner agrees. "It's so cool."

"I do, yeah. It is pretty cool," Mel agrees, glancing over at Frank as he buckles his own seatbelt. He's smiling, expression almost giddy, and her heart suddenly feels like it's too big for her chest. "Your dad's really, really good at it. He's always helping people." 

"Mel's even better at it." He says, nudging her with his arm where it rests against hers on the center console. "She heals people just by smiling at them, really. That's how good she is." 

"Wow," Penny squeals, tossing her doll aside. "Just like a princess." 

Frank laughs, and Mel can't help but smile despite the ridiculousness of his claim. 

"Exactly," he agrees. "A real life princess." 

-
Some shifts, Mel finds, are heavier than others. 

Most of the time, she thinks she shoulders the morbidity of the ER and the grief that accompanies it as well as one can. She finishes her charting, clocks out, and sits up a little straighter by the time she's climbing into the passenger seat of Frank's car. 

Other times, she nearly buckles under the weight, but finds the strength to stay upright, be it from a conversation with Becca, or the relaxation that comes from a warm bath soon after she arrives home, or perhaps most frequently, the hand encompassing her own against her lap on the drive home. 

On the bad days, clocking out and lifting her chin high with a smile to accompany it does nothing to help. Nor does karaoke, or the promise of pizza from her favorite shop only a few blocks from home. 

"You sure you're okay?" Frank asks, after a particularly grueling shift. She opens her mouth to answer, but no sound escapes. Her eyes burn with the threat of unshed tears, and rather than attempting to speak again, she merely nods. 

It's true, sort of. She is okay. Emotionally damaged by the horrors of codes being performed on frail ninety-two year olds with no advanced directives in place and orphaned children and husbands losing their wives in freak accidents only days after saying, "I do," and— 

"Mel."

There's a tightness in her chest, and the seatbelt feels too harsh against the skin of her neck. She clicks the button to roll the window down, but it doesn't move, and the radio is droning on and on about a podcast she doesn't care about, and she can't breathe. 

"Pull over." 

"Mel—"

"Frank, pull the car over," she manages to gasp out, one hand clutching fruitlessly at her throat as if it's enough to will her lungs back into a productive rhythm. "I can't breathe, I need— just— I need air." 

Mel's unbuckling her seatbelt and barreling out of the car before he can shift into park. They're on the side of the road only a few blocks from the hospital, and she's bent over, clutching at her knees as she takes big, heaving breaths. She tries to remember something, anything, that can help regulate her breathing, but all she can think about is the cracking of an elderly woman's ribs beneath her touch, or the wails of a new husband who's been forced to say goodbye far too soon.

"Hey," she hears, and then Frank's cradling her face, ducking to meet her gaze. "Mel, sweetheart, look at me." 

"I can't breathe, Frank. I can't— Why is the world so fucking awful?"

"I don't know," he breathes, shaking his head. "I don't know, I'm sorry. It is awful, and cruel, and it doesn't make any fucking sense." 

"No," she cries. "It doesn't." 

"It doesn't."

She tries to match his breaths, deep and even, her own hands covering his against the sides of her face. He doesn't try to sugarcoat things, or lie to her and tell her everything's okay when he knows days like today will only continue to come so long as she works in emergency medicine. He doesn't speak unnecessary words of praise or comfort, but he's there, present. Steady. 

It comforts her more than any advice or empty promises ever could. 

It's easy, then, to wrap her arms around his middle, pulling him into her. He's warm, and sturdy, and he pulls her close, pressing his mouth briefly to her hairline.

"Thank you," she whispers once she's managed to calm down, her voice rough. "For everything, Frank. You're always there for me, and I appreciate it. I do." 

Another press of his lips, this time to her forehead. She wants to get closer to him, would burrow herself under his skin if it were humanly possible. "I know you do. I know, Mel. It's only fair though," he murmurs. "You're always there for me when I need you, too. God, I don't know how I would've gotten through these past few months without you." 

"You would have." 

"No." He shakes his head. "No, it's not— It wouldn't have been the same. You're— God, Mel. You're everything." 

Mel thinks his words teeter on the edge of a confession, though she can't be sure, too afraid to ask. Too afraid to tiptoe into uncharted territory by asking, or worse, to free-fall into it, to open a portal into the vast unknown of Frank Langdon's mind (heart?). 

"Frank," she breathes, pulling back to look at him. His eyes are wide, unsure, likely a mirror of her own. Part of her wants to ask what he means, to try to untangle her own complicated feelings. The other part wants to retreat to safety. "We should, um. We should probably get going, huh?" 

So, she retreats. 

He's quiet when he climbs into the driver's seat, and when he starts the car. He doesn't speak as they pull back onto the road, either, or as they sit through stoplight after stoplight, the universe seemingly deciding they need to spend even more time together than they already do. 

Mel worries at her bottom lip, teeth biting the already raw skin. She wants to apologize, to ask him what he meant. 

You're everything. 

Everything. 

Her? 

Instead of asking, she reaches for his hand. He allows her to pull it into her lap, intertwining their fingers so they slot together as easily as they do every other time. A perfect fit. Her thumb runs against the back of his hand, and she chances a glance over at him. 

He's already watching her, and when she offers him a smile, he returns it with ease.

-

She’s used to the questioning looks people give her, the wide eyes and furrowed brows, the laughter hardly held back.

People tend to like her, often marveling at how kind she is, though she doesn’t think of herself as being particularly kind.It’s just a matter of being a decent human being, she thinks. They compliment her with remarks about she’s a good doctor, a good sister. It’s just that they don’t seek her out as an individual they really want to know, at least on a personal level. 

It’s easy for others to overlook Mel in that regard, but Frank never has. 

From their first shift together, he sought her out, wanting to know more about Mel, the person. He didn’t watch her with wary eyes or a half-hidden grin, nor did he pull away at the first awkward joke or inappropriately timed remark. He stayed, and rather than expecting Mel to adjust to his own way of being, he adjusted himself so that he was on her level instead. He still does, and she’s more thankful for that than she could ever put into words.

She tries not to care what other people think, knowing that it can only get her so far. If she were constantly seeking the approval of others, she would never be happy. Still, it’s hard to ignore some things, such as the way people interpret her relationship with Frank. Most of the emergency department’s staff members are used to the two of them by now, frequently joking that they come as a set. 

One of the new unit clerks, Stephanie, Mel thinks, has yet to catch on. 

“I just think King’s too nice to him considering the shit he’s pulled,” Mel overheard her telling one of the other clerks as she rounded a corner near the end of shift. “It’s a wonder they’re as close as they are, really. You wouldn’t think so.” 

“Plus,” the other woman reasoned, “I wouldn't think he has the patience. Y'know, to deal with all of that.” 

It stung, the insinuation that he would need patience to simply be her friend. She tells him as much as they pull away from a drive-thru he insisted they stop at, the cup holders between them housing two large milkshakes, a container of french fries held in her hand. 

“Jesus, some people are assholes,” he reasons, holding his hand out for a fry, which she provides, but she isn’t sure it makes her feel much better. “I’m sorry you had to hear that, Mel. Want me to say something to Robby about it?” 

She’s quick to answer, “No, that’s not necessary. I just wish I understood why us being friends is so strange to them. Or, I don’t know, maybe the problem is me.” 

He stiffens at that, his grip on the wheel tightening. 

“Don’t say shit like that, Mel. It’s not true.” He glances over at her, and seeing her look of skepticism, insists, “It’s not.”

“I know I can be a lot, Frank. It’s fine. Some people probably do need patience—”

“Yeah, well, I don’t. Nothing even remotely close to that has ever crossed my mind when it comes to you, and I swear, Mel, if people would get their heads out of their asses long enough to really pay attention, they’d see exactly what I do.” 

She swallows a drink of her milkshake, the chocolate sweet on her tongue. Her heart does a funny little thing when he looks over at her again, and quietly she asks, “What do you see?”  

He reaches over to grab another fry, taking a bite. When he speaks, he doesn’t hesitate, or fumble his words. He speaks confidently, matter-of-factly, as if it’s something he’s thought about many times before. 

“I see strength and intelligence. Kindness. God, you’re so kind, and I know that’s something people tell you all the time, but it’s true, and knowing all the shit you’ve been through, it’s a wonder that’s even the case.” He takes a deep breath, shaking his head. “I see someone who’s understanding, forgiving. Funny, whether or not you believe it. I see my best friend.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, I do. Being your friend is the easiest thing I’ve ever done, I think. The only thing I need patience for is when you’re trying to decide on what boba flavor to get, Mel.” 

She ducks her head, face practically on fire. Her heart races, and she thinks maybe she’s the one that needs patience in times like this, though not for the reason people may think. 

“There are just so many good ones,” she reasons, and he laughs. 

“Trust me, I know.” He smiles, and it might just be her favorite thing in the world, she’s recently come to realize. She takes another sip from the drink in hand, and he says, “Speaking of flavors, can I have a drink? The strawberry’s not bad, but chocolate’s a classic.” 

She wrinkles her nose at the mention of strawberry, but passes him the cup. “I told you the strawberry chunks make it unenjoyable.” 

He takes a drink, humming contentedly as he swallows. 

“You were right.” 

She shrugs, then playfully remarks, “I usually am.” 

He reaches for her hand and she goes with ease, placing it in his. 

“Trust me, I know.” 

-

Routine, in Mel's opinion, is a good thing. It makes life easy, predictable. 

She sets her clothes out for work the night prior to each shift, and wakes up to the sound of her alarm at the same time each morning. Her hair is pulled back into its usual braid, her shoes always put on and tied in the same order. At 6:30, she opens the front door to the sight of Frank's car parked out front, and he greets her with an easy, "Good morning," the warm scent of coffee and the cologne he wears an additional welcome. 

When life is chaotic in every other manner, routine allows her the necessary room to breathe. 

Except, as she realizes on the drive home from work one Wednesday evening, Frank has become engrained into her daily routine in ways she never thought were possible, and that worries her. 

"I know we usually get pizza on Fridays, but since Becca has plans with Adam this week, I was thinking we could do something else," he suggests, glancing over at her as the light changes. "I mean, if you want something else. Pizza is fine, I just thought changing it up a little could be nice. It's up to you, of course." 

"No," she says, shaking her head. "No, something else could be nice." 

"Okay." 

He squeezes her hand. It's warm, comforting, and practically second nature by now, the feeling of his skin on hers. There's no reason for the doubt that burrows deep within her at the mention of Friday's plans. He has the kids every other weekend, and typically on the off weekends, he joins the King sisters for movie night. Sometimes he joins with Tanner and Penny tagging along, too, and though it means being kicked in the thigh as Penny tries to situate herself between Mel and Frank, or being touched by sticky, greasy hands, she adores them. 

She adores him. 

As much as she tries to claim otherwise, her moods throughout the duration of each shift are frequently dependent upon whether Frank's working, too, or the frequency with which she's able to see him. If he's feeling off, or upset, she senses it, and tries to make things better. Sometimes it means sitting side by side with hushed words of comfort being passed between them in the stairwell, or the break room. Sometimes it means wrapping her arms around him outside, in the ambulance bay, running her fingers through his hair as he buries his face against her neck. 

He texts her goodnight, or sends a thread of messages if he can't sleep. He knows she uses the do not disturb function, so it won't wake her. She texts him good morning, and when she goes to the store, always grabs a pack of Red Bull to store in her fridge, even though she doesn't drink them herself. 

Over time, and without fanfare, Frank has become a fixture in every part of her life, and Mel can't help but worry it'll slip away just as easily. 

What if he gets sick of her and decides she's entirely too dependent on him, or that he needs to pull away for his own sanity? Or, worse, what if he does one day realize she's too much? She can be rather particular about things, she knows. She doesn't like shoes in the house, and when it's late and she insists he stay the night, she makes him change before he sleeps in her bed because she doesn't like the concept of outside clothes on her sheets. She has an ongoing list of food she doesn't like, and even those she does like have caveats. She talks too much, and sometimes misses his jokes, or speaks at inappropriate times. 

She's frequently too much for herself to handle, her mind moving at a relentless pace.

How could she not be too much for him? 

"Are you sure you're really still up for Friday?" She asks, looking out the window to her right. She isn't really sure she wants the answer. 

"Yeah, of course. Why wouldn't I be?" He frowns as he flips the turn signal on.

They're not far from her apartment, which she thinks is a good thing as she explains, "We just spend a lot of time together, that's all. I didn't, uh, know if maybe you'd rather do something else since you're free. There are plenty of things you could be doing, I mean, instead of just wasting a Friday night with me."

This time, he looks over at her, his eyes narrowed. There's still a frown on his face, except deeper now, and Mel thinks maybe he looks upset. Or, worse, hurt. She doesn't like it, a nagging feeling deep in her gut at the thought of her being the one to cause him to feel that way. 

"What do you mean?" He shakes his head, quiet for a beat before he continues, kind but firm, "You're my best friend, Mel. Obviously I'd rather be spending my time with you than doing whatever else it is you think I should be doing." 

The car rolls to a stop as he pulls to the curb in front of her place. He puts it in park and reaches to turn it off. Mel blinks, the dashboard in front of her growing blurry as tears gather in her eyes.

Why is she like this?

"Okay, that's—"

"Unless you don't want me to come over Friday? I don't have to, I just thought, y'know, it's what we do." 

"No," she says, quick to correct him. "No, Frank. That's not it at all. I love spending time with you, please don't think that's the case." 

The car turns off and Frank turns to face her. 

Never one to shy away from confronting the issues at hand, he asks, "Then what's the problem?" 

"I—" She closes her eyes and takes a breath. It would be too easy to stay put, to look him in the eye and dive head first into her insecurities. He would probably assure her that he could never feel like she's too much, but there's a sick feeling in her gut, and her face is hot, and she can't have him looking at her with the wide, gentle gaze he so often watches her with. "I have to go, Frank. I'll, um, see you tomorrow." 

"Mel—" 

"Thanks for the ride." 

She unbuckles her seatbelt and, after grabbing her bag, wrenches the door open, quickly stepping out. 

"Hey, wait a second—" 

Hoping he realizes she wants to be left alone, she turns, walking along the sidewalk and up the stairs to her front porch. She reaches for her keys, fumbling with them as she attempts to find the right one, and just as she's settled on the one she needs and is moving to insert it into the lock, there's a hand reaching out to stop her. 

"Mel, please, just talk to me. I don't know what I did, or why you're upset, but I can't just go home and go to bed not knowing if we're okay." 

"We're fine, I promise. This doesn't have anything to do with you, Frank, really." 

Sometimes she finds herself wishing he wasn't so in tune with her. Most of the time, it's wonderful, having someone who knows her as well as she knows herself. When she doesn't want him privy to her innermost thoughts and feelings, such as times like these, it can be a pain. 

He looks down, kicking at a stray rock. Beneath her feet, her welcome mat is old and faded, and there's a pot beside the door that once housed a plant that's long since died. Mel wasn't born equipped with a green thumb, no matter how hard she tries to compensate by reading guides and buying the best potting soil and ensuring she's using a pot of the correct size. 

"It sort of feels like it does." 

Rather than making things worse, she chooses to be honest with him. 

"It's not." She shakes her head, placing a hand on his arm. His forehead is creased with worry, and she feels horrible for ever making him feel that way. "I'm just feeling insecure, I think, and I took it out on you. Just because I don't understand why you enjoy spending time with me doesn't mean I have to make assumptions and push you away in the process. I'm really sorry, Frank." 

He looks taken aback as she runs her thumb along the curve of his wrist, and she watches as he opens his mouth to speak, an unintelligible noise escaping before he asks, simply, "What the fuck?" 

"Um, what?" 

"Mel, seriously?" He straightens, using his free hand to push his hair away from his forehead. "I understand feeling insecure, obviously, especially when it comes to some things you can't help, but how can you not understand why I like spending time with you? I feel like I make it pretty obvious." 

Mel blinks, unsure of how to respond. She's never been a fan of confrontation, at least not on a personal level. When she was a child, she found herself caught between the unfortunate bickering of two classmates on the playground during recess. They both turned to ask for her opinion, but instead of answering, Mel took a deep breath, and after looking back and forth between them, embarrassingly threw up on one of the girls' shoes. 

She thinks she could do the same now, with Frank looking down at her, mouth agape and brows furrowed as he attempts to understand. 

"You do," she admits, but shrugs helplessly, her hands falling to her sides as she pulls away from his touch. "I'm just— I know I can be a lot to handle. I'm not, like, oblivious to it. I know that I'm too particular about things sometimes, and I like to stick to a pretty strict schedule, and I have trouble understanding some of your jokes." 

"Mel, none of that matters to me." 

"You say that now, Frank, but I know what people think of me, and I just don't want you to wake up one day and decide I'm, I don't know, too much. Plenty of people have told me—"

"Hey," he whispers, hands grasping at her shoulders as he wills her to look at him, desperate for her to understand. "Hey, sweetheart, no. No, no, no. You don't ever have to worry about that happening. Not with me." 

"I know you think that, but—" 

"Never, Mel." 

Quietly, and unsure of if she really wants to know the answer, she forces herself to ask, "Why?" 

"God, you really don't get it, do you?" He shakes his head and then takes a deep breath, rocking back and forth on his heels as though debating with himself. Finally, he admits, "You're the best part of my day, Mel. You pick the shittiest music to listen to at six in the morning, and you watch videos on your phone at the same volume as a seventy-year-old man who's deaf in one ear. You're bullheaded and kind to a fault, and—"

"This is sort of making me feel worse. Could you please—" 

"You don't do well with caffeine, so you drink tea instead of coffee. You always double knot your shoelaces and coordinate your socks with your outfit of the day. Your glasses fall down your nose but you refuse to get a pair with the little nosepads because they irritate your skin, and I'm so in love with you I feel like I can't eat, or sleep, or breathe because I'm too busy losing my goddamn mind." 

"Oh," she whispers. "I don't, um. Are you sure?" 

"Very." He cradles her face as he nods, and it's dark, but beneath the dim porch light she can make out the warmth in his eyes, the gentle way he's smiling at her, and God, she loves him, too. "Can I kiss you?" 

"Please." 

His lips capture hers with the same gentleness he always handles her with, one hand caressing her jaw as though she's something precious. He's warm, and solid, and when she brings her hand to his neck and presses herself against him, she finds that they're a perfect fit. 

She loves him, and he just said he loves her, and there's a desperation in how she clings to him, kissing him with the same fervor. It can't last forever, though, and she's feeling a tad lightheaded, and entirely too giddy, so she makes the decision to pull away, though only far enough to brush her nose against his. 

"Do you really think I pick shitty music in the mornings?" Her thumb brushes against his cheek as she laughs, and he practically giggles in return, his forehead pressing into hers. 

"That's what you're choosing to focus on?" 

"It's an important question, Dr. Langdon." 

"A great one," he agrees, trying to keep the laughter out of his voice. "One I'll consider answering later. There's something else I need you to focus on right now," he reasons, and leans in to kiss her again. 

- 

The next morning, Mel wakes to empty sheets and several unread text messages. 

Though the majority of her shifts align with Frank's, it isn’t unusual for there to be days in which one of them is scheduled and the other isn’t, and she knows they both seem to be on the same page, if the previous night is anything to go by. Despite this, she can’t help the uneasiness that settles in her chest as the day goes on, and though they speak plenty over text and even briefly on the phone that evening, she finds herself worried even as she climbs into his car on Friday morning. 

He grins when he sees her, greeting her with a gentle, “Hey.” 

“Hi,” she returns with a smile of her own as she buckles her seatbelt. 

She turns to place her bag in the back. This time, a sticker book of Penny’s and one of Tanner’s many Spider-Man action figures, her own favorite jacket, and an extra pair of Frank’s shoes greet her. When she turns back around, he reaches for her hand, pulling it into his lap the way he so often does, and she nearly jumps. 

“Oh.” 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, brow furrowed with confusion. 

“Nothing, it’s— I’m okay.” 

His mouth presses into a thin line. “No you’re not. Talk to me, please.” 

“It’s really not a big deal, I promise.” 

“Did I do something? I know we haven’t really, uh, talked much about the other night, but I meant everything I said, Mel.” He brings her hand to his mouth, presses a kiss to the back of it. “I love you. I’m in love with you, and I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, Mel. I’m all in.” 

Relief floods through her at his words, and she can’t help but smile. She doesn’t know why she was ever worried in the first place when there’s never been anything but ease when it comes to them, anyway, but worrying has never been something she can just will away. 

“I love you, too,” she says, and the words feel foreign as they leave her mouth, but she thinks she’ll become acquainted with them rather quickly. He smiles back at her, and she thanks the universe for allowing her to know him. 

He looks at the time and suggests they get going, but she stops him, a hand at his arm. 

"Hey, do you mind if I choose the music?" 

He tilts his head back against the seat, eyes falling shut as he laughs. Mel can't help but do the same despite the early hour that usually has her wishing for sleep, and when she's calmed down enough to remove her glasses and wipe them off against the hem of her shirt, he leans in close. 

"I'm really not living that one down, am I?" 

"Nope," she says, moving to press her mouth softly against his cheek. 

"Looks like I'll just have to make up for it, then." 

When he kisses her, he tastes like coffee, and friendship, and hope. 

Above all, he tastes like love, and Mel thinks that maybe carpooling is an excellent use for more than just its environmental benefits or convenience.