Chapter Text
After the massacre at Pittfest, the hospital feels oddly quiet. There are still patients everywhere, some critical, some barely grazed, some dead. And yet, it feels like everybody’s let out a breath, for the first time in five hours.
And Frank’s nowhere to be found.
He’s been spotty all day. Nowhere to be found when you looked for him after lunch, and appearing again randomly when things started getting bad.
Frowning, you head up to paeds to grab your things. Maybe he’s just showering. Trying to get rid of the blood under his fingernails. Backpack slung over your shoulder, you catch Robby and Abbot as they’re leaving. “Hey, have either of you guys seen Frank?”
They exchange a look, Robby’s expression falling a little. Immediately, your heart sinks. “Come on over here, we can talk,” He murmurs, hand at your elbow. “Frank was sent home.”
“Why? Is he okay?” Your mind starts to race a million miles a minute. Visions of him somehow getting hurt tonight. Although, surely if he got hurt, he’d still be here to be treated.
“He’s been stealing pills from the hospital. Librium. I’ve sent him home tonight, and we’re going to work out what to do tomorrow. It-it’s uh, likely that he’s going to need to do some kind of treatment programme. Rehab.”
“Stealing?” you echo, frowning. “That doesn’t-” You trail off, shaking your head. “I didn’t see anything. He didn’t seem- I mean, Frank’s been stressed, sure, but-”
“Kid, it’s bad,” Robby interjects. “Like ‘might not have a job soon’ bad.”
“Oh,” you breathe, chest constricting.
You don’t know what your face is doing, but Robby’s expression softens even more. “I’m sorry you’re finding out like this,” he says. “Tonight forced my hand. I can’t let him be around patients when there’s a risk like that - we obviously needed him during the MCI, but starting tomorrow… he needs help.”
You nod, because that’s what you do when everything inside you feels loose and unanchored. When your life and relationship is going at ninety miles an hour, and about to run off the road entirely. “I— I should go,” You mumble, the decision forming fully in your mouth before you realize it. “I need to go home.”
Robby hesitates, then nods. “That makes sense. Let me know if there’s anything I can do. I’ll be in touch.”
The drive is the worst fifteen minutes of your life, but you’re suddenly very grateful you brought both cars to work today, due to an early meeting you had.
By the time you get home, your hands are shaking. The lights are on when you pull up, a thin, steady glow behind the curtains that makes you want to cry already. It’s so familiar, and yet you have the distinct feeling that everything is about to spiral out of control.
It’s quiet inside.
The bedroom door is open.
Frank is standing at the foot of the bed, folding clothes with careful precision. An open duffel bag gapes on the mattress, half-full of t-shirts, jeans, underwear.
He looks up when he hears you.
For a second, neither of you speak.
“What are you doing?” you ask, even though the answer is right there in front of you.
He swallows, nods once, like he’s bracing himself. “I’m… I’m going to rehab. Tonight. Or first thing in the morning. Robby gave me some numbers.” He gestures vaguely toward the bag. “I thought it’d be better if I just… got ahead of it.”
A fresh start.
“You were going to leave without talking to me?” Your voice is steadier than you feel.
“No,” He says quickly. Too quickly. “I mean- I didn’t know when you’d get home, and I didn’t want to put this on you after everything tonight.” He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’ve been through enough. I-I thought it would be easier this way.”
Your expression hardens a little. “You don’t get to decide that I don’t get to be here.”
That makes him flinch.
“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” He admits, eyes cast low. “I didn’t want to look at you and know I disappointed you.”
Your chest tightens painfully. “Frank… that’s not true-”
“I stole from the hospital,” He interjects bluntly. “From patients. From fucking Louie.” His voice breaks, just slightly.
You step closer without really deciding to. “Is that why you’re packing? Because you think leaving will make that better?”
He lets out a hollow laugh. “I think leaving might be the only way I don’t drag you down with me.” He finally looks at you then, eyes red, exhausted. “I need a clean slate. A fresh start. And I don’t know how to do that if I stay.”
The words sting more than you expect, knocking your entire world off its axis. At the idea that Frank doesn’t need you. Not the way that you need him. He wants to face this alone, and without you.
“You don’t get a fresh start by running,” You say, trying desperately to keep your voice level. The last thing either of you need right now is a screaming match. “You get one by staying and doing the work.”
“I don’t trust myself here,” He replies, still unable to meet your gaze. “I know how easy it would be to mess up again.” His voice drops. “And I can’t mess up again. Not after this.”
You think of the back injury. The long nights on the couch. The way he’d grit his teeth when he stood up too fast. “Why didn’t you tell me?” You ask, the question small and aching between you.
He closes his eyes. “Because I wanted to be better before you noticed,” he says. “Because I thought I could fix it on my own. I thought it would just be a few weeks.”
Silence stretches, thick and heavy. You think you might be sick.
“I’m not disappointed in you,” You say finally, a tear slipping down your cheek. “I’m scared. I’m angry you didn’t trust me. But I’m not disappointed.”
“You should be.”
“I’m not,” You repeat. “I love you.”
That does it.
Frank’s shoulders cave inward, like something inside him finally gives. He turns away, dragging a hand down his face, breathing hard. “I don’t deserve that,” he whispers.
“Maybe not,” You say. “But you still get it.”
He stands there for a long moment, back to you, then nods once. “I have to do this,” he says hoarsely. “I-I can’t do this. I have to go.”
When he shoulders the duffel bag, something in you snaps.
“No,” You say, sharp and loud in the too-quiet room. God, you hope the neighbours can’t hear everything. “Absolutely not. You don’t get to do this.”
Frank stops by the door. His back is to you, but you can see his jaw clench.
“Turn around,” You demand. “If you’re going to leave me, you can at least look at me.”
Slowly, he does.
“You think you can just pack a bag and disappear?” you continue, voice rising. Your hands are shaking now, fists clenched at your sides. “You don’t get to decide this by yourself. Are we just not getting married anymore?”
“Jesus,” He groans, frustration seeping into his tone. “A wedding is the last fucking thing on my mind right now.”
A wave of shame washes over you. So many people died today, had their life destroyed, and you’re thinking about yourself. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant that you don’t want me to wait for you. That we’ve been together for almost three years and you don’t even want to try and let me be there for you.”
“I’m going to rehab!”
“And you’re breaking up with me,” You shoot back. “Don’t dress it up like you’re doing me a favour.”
His eyes flash. “I am doing you a favour.”
That lands like a slap.
“Oh, don’t,” You laugh bitterly. “Don’t you dare act like this is noble. You lied to me. You stole from your job. And now you’re running because it’s easier than staying and facing me. What do you want from me? I want to work through this, Frank.”
“I am facing you,” He snaps, voice raised now too. “I’m standing right here.”
“No, you’re not,” You shout. “You’re already gone. I-if I hadn’t come back when I did, you would’ve left me a note, and disappeared from my life entirely, with no regard for me.”
You pray he denies that. Shakes his head and yells at you for even thinking that low of him. Instead, he swallows, and you know you were right. He would have left. Frank drags a hand through his hair, breathing hard. “You have no idea what it’s like to look at you and know I failed you. Every day.”
“I didn’t ask for better. I asked for you.”
Silence cracks between you, sharp and loud in your ears.
“You think this is about you?” he fires back. “I’m trying to stay alive. I’m trying not to screw up again.”
“Do you have any idea what this feels like? To come home and find you packing? Like we don’t mean anything? Like this doesn’t mean anything?” You hold up your hand, engagement ring glinting softly in the light.
His voice breaks, then hardens. “I can’t get clean with you here.”
“What-” you mumble, stunned. “I’m a trigger now?”
“No,” He snaps. “You’re a reminder. Of everything I can’t live up to.”
You step closer, invading his space, anger blazing through the hurt. “Frankie, please. Tell me how to be there for you, and I’ll do it. Don’t do… this.”
The room goes dead quiet except for your breathing - ragged, furious, and exhausted. Finally, he speaks. “I have to-”
“Don’t.”
You can’t stand and listen to him explain all the reasons why he has to leave you.
“If this is what it takes to stop hurting you.”
Tears burn your eyes, but your voice stays loud, sharp. Masking the hurt. “I’m begging you. Stay. Don’t do this like it’s some grand sacrifice. Stay and let me be angry with you. Let me help you. Let me-”
“I can’t! I’m sorry. but I need to go.”
The words echo, ugly and final.
“You don’t get to come back from that,” You cry, not bothering to hide from him anymore. “You don’t get to leave and decide someday you’re better and just… knock on my door like you didn’truin this.”
He grips the doorframe, knuckles white. “I’m not planning on coming back.”
That’s the one that breaks you.
*****
He’s never looked smaller. After two emergency surgeries - the first to stop the internal bleeding, the second to remove his spleen after he crashed again in recovery - Frank finally made it to the ICU.
You got the story from Robby on the way to the hospital. He’d been on his way home, to you, when a drunk driver had hit him a couple of streets over.
He’d been bleeding out on the road just a few hundred metres from the apartment, and you hadn’t known a thing.
He’s not out of the woods yet, but you feel mildly less desolate than you did four hours ago. After dealing with all the paperwork, which you were very grateful to Robby for shouldering, you’re currently curled up in an uncomfortable chair, fingers laced through Frank’s.
Ever since he stabilised, and got moved to the ICU, you’ve had a small trickle of Pitt staff through to give you their condolences.
Dana brought food. You had thanked her, and then pushed it aside as soon as she left. The idea of eating anything right now still makes you feel sick.
Robby had brought Frank’s personal items. Clothes, signet ring, phone, wallet. You’d managed to keep it together until you’d found the polaroid tucked beside his credit card. It’s one of you, from a hike the two of you had done last month. You’d been in California for a conference, and Frank had used some of his annual leave to tag along. Your smile is wide, gaze focused just above the lens. On Frank.
By the time Samira appears, you’ve pulled it together a little. And then she pulls you into a tight hug, and you bawl into her arms.
Then, the ward gets quiet, and the night shift settles in. You get a single text from Jack.
Thinking about you both, kid. I’ve told everyone to leave you be, in case you want to try and get some sleep, or even just want to have a cry without worrying about Shen barging through the door every second. If there’s anything I can do, consider it done. I’ll pop by in the morning. Abbot.
God bless Jack Abbot.
You hope you have good news for everyone in the morning. That Frank comes to, and is completely on the mend. Except he doesn’t wake up that night.
Or the next.
It isn’t until day three, when you’ve spent approximately 65 hours at Frank’s bedside, when his hand finally twitches.
You’re on edge immediately, as his eyes flutter.
He goes to speak, choking a little, and you immediately grab for a cup on his bedside, pressing it gently to his lips. “W-what happened?”
There was a while when you didn’t think you’d ever hear his voice again, and the tears come quickly.
“You were in a car accident, Frankie. You had surgery, and they took out your spleen.” His brow furrows, and you press a kiss to his knuckles. “I-I was so scared-”
“Hey, hey, it’s okay, I’m okay,” He mumbles. “C’mon, don’t cry, honey-”
“I’m sorry,” You sob, leaning forward to rest your head against his shoulder. “I-I thought that you might not wake up, and you were going to die without knowing that I love you - because I do. So, so, much. And I never once stopped. Not even when I hated you. And I know that this might be a lot to take in, but I just- I need you to know that I love you. More than anything.”
His lip curls up slightly. “Can’t tell you how long I’ve been waiting to hear that.”
“I was going to tell you… the night it happened.”
“M’just glad I’m hearing it at all, sweetheart.”
You let out an incredulous laugh, and press your lips to his. Cupping his cheek, you sigh into the movement, being careful not to touch anywhere near his abdomen. “I should call in the doctor. Get you checked out.”
“You could just do it,” Frank offers, but you shake your head.
“I am purely here in a girlfriend capacity. No doctoring here unless absolutely necessary.”
“Girlfriend,” He murmurs, contemplating. “We should really do something about upgrading that, soon.”
You’re not quite sure how Frank Langdon can be on death’s door and still make you swoon, but somehow he manages. “Alright, Casanova. Just focus on getting better, and then we’ll talk. Alright?”
He just shoots you a grin. “I’m holding you to that.”
Six months later.
The white lace of the wedding gown drapes across your shoulders, as you try and manoeuvre the bodice over your hips. Normally a two person job, you’d insisted you could do it yourself, so as to get some semblance of a ‘first look’ with Frank.
After everything, you’re not exactly going about it traditionally.
You’d both had your bachelor and bachelorette parties last week, opting to spend your last night before marriage together. Your night had consisted of takeaway pizza, Almost Famous, and shower sex, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Frankie?” You call through to the guest room, where Frank has been banished. “Can you help me lace up my dress?”
“You sure? There’s no going back once I’ve seen it.”
You roll your eyes. “Well, there’s no one else here. If you don’t come now, then this dress is not staying up and I’ll flash all of our guests.”
“Can’t be having that, can we? Think Whitaker might have a heart attack if-” There’s a pause. Then the door opens.
You hear him before you see him. A sharp intake of breath, that he doesn’t bother hiding. You meet his eyes in the mirror as he steps inside. No grand reveal. No aisle. Just the two of you, in your home. Together.
“Wow,” He says quietly, reverently, like anything louder might break the hesitant quiet of the bedroom.
Your throat tightens. “Hi.”
He doesn’t move at first, like he’s afraid this isn’t meant for him. Then he smiles, slow and familiar, and comes closer. His hands hover at your back, unsure for once. He presses a kiss to your bare shoulder, and you turn to pull him in for a hug. “You look incredible,” He murmurs.
“I like your suit,” You mumble, feeling the material beneath your fingers. “You look like Montgomery Clift.”
Finally, he pulls back, and you adjust the dress, holding it up against you. His hands are warm at your back, knuckles brushing skin as he finds the laces. You feel the faint tremor in him, the way his breath steadies as if he’s bracing himself. For someone who’s never been short on words, Frank is suddenly very quiet.
“You okay?” You ask, watching him in the mirror.
He nods once, then exhales a small, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah. Just - yeah.”
He starts lacing the dress carefully, pausing occasionally to drop another kiss to your shoulder, your neck, your cheek. Each pull draws the fabric closer, makes you feel more real inside it. Less like you’re pretending.
You meet his eyes again in the mirror. There’s something open there, something undone. You’ve seen that look before - in hospital corridors, in half-lit kitchens at three in the morning, after your brother’s wedding. It’s the look he gets when something matters more than he knows how to say.
“I’ve been so worried all morning that I’ll cry as soon as I see you, ruin my makeup,” You admit quietly.
His mouth tilts into a smile. “Still time.”
You huff a laugh. “Don’t push it.”
He tightens another lace and his fingers linger, resting flat against your spine. The touch is grounding. Familiar. It’s the same hand that reaches for yours in crowds, that presses into your back when you’re about to lose your nerve. That makes you feel completely and utterly safe.
“You look like you,” He says finally. “The most beautiful woman in the world.”
The words hit harder than anything else could have.
You swallow. “Are you trying to make me cry?”
He finishes the last tie and lets his hands fall, like he’s afraid to overstep now that he’s already crossed some invisible line. You turn then, fully, dress hair still loose, and allow yourself a good look at him.
“I love you,” You whisper.
There it is.
His face changes - softening even further, if that’s possible. His eyes shine and he doesn’t bother blinking it away.
“Jesus,” He murmurs. “I really get to marry you.”
You step closer, resting your forehead against his chest. You can feel his heart under the fabric, fast and sure.
“Looks like it,” You murmur.
He laughs quietly and wraps his arms around you. You fit there easily, like you always have. “What do you say? You ready to lock this thing down?”