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Chapter Text

Rehab is hard and confusing and almost distressing while in withdrawal. He thinks he's hallucinating. He keeps staring at the sun beam on the wall and it keeps shifting and he keeps twitching back and trying to see if anyone else noticed and no one does. 

Medically, he knows what's happening with him. But his logic isn't exactly working right now. He got through the hell that was the first week - He thinks Abby visited at least once but he honestly can't remember, too out of it to even talk or hold his head up every time - but this week he's finally left with the remnants: shivering occasionally, sweating, and hallucinating. 

The sun beam shifts again, gliding across the wall and he sits up straighter. He knows, somewhere in his head, he probably looks crazy, staring at a sun beam for possibly hours. He can't tell time normally and being so out of it he couldn't tell you the month. October, maybe. Hell, if he's unlucky and lost more time than expected, November. He thinks he remembers hearing about rehab being extended. But it could've been a dream.

He tried to escape once - if by “escape” you mean walk out the front door. He doesn't know why he thought it would be easy, but the buildings entrance/exit had a series of hallways, that were pretty simple when clear headed but while sick with withdrawal once he turned a corner and faced down an identical corridor he almost cried, thinking he managed to trap himself in a place that never ends. He was rather quickly found by a nurse and lead back to bed, and as he was falling asleep for the 5th time that day he found the recurring hallway clever. 

He doesn’t notice the nurse talking to him until they shake his shoulder and he jolts, tearing his eyes away from the sun beam and to the nurse. 

“You have a visitor,” They repeat. He just nods slowly. The common room doubles as the visitation room so it's not like he has to move, the nurse was just letting him know. He thinks, blearily, that the nurse almost looks like Donnie. He misses Donnie.

The nurse gently nudged him to sit more properly at the table and chair he was stationed at. It looks a bit like a kids table, with a soft top covered in fake leather he can press his fingers into and watch it morph. The nurse stands there, letting him pick at his nails for a moment before carefully separating his hands and giving him a random toy. It looks childish, bright colours to catch attention and plenty of moving parts, but it works. It soothes the restless hands from the ADHD and soothes the scattered mind from the withdrawl. For some reason, right now, he doesn't mind feeling like a kid that's being looked after. He feels like it.

A random security guard and a nurse flank someone entering the room, and he's frankly forgotten about having a visitor already, so he's almost surprised when she sits in front of him. It takes a second and some squinting to recognize her, but once he does he grins and sits up straight.

“Abby!” He says, and it's more than clear to her he's still someone who's loopy with the withdrawls. She coos and puts a hand on his cheek. At least he isn't upset at seeing her face like he was last week, or depressed like the week before that, or unresponsive before that…

“Look at you… You look awful,” She murmurs. Frank just shrugs and doesn't seem bothered.

“Feel it too. I feel like when I got the flu. But less… Less hot/cold.” Abby nods, remembering how he was. Trying to get up and do everything he could around the house still, trying desperately to be useful because he can't stand being useless. But she's sure he means more of the “feeling sick” part.

“Have you been eating?” She rubs her finger against his cheekbone, just a little more pronounced than before.

“Whatever I can keep down. So, not a ton. Protein shakes mostly. I can eat grapes, I've found out. Green ones.” She gives a small smile. He was always more relaxed and less masked when sick. More childlike. Less like the man he insisted he needed to be. 

“That's good. Does the cafeteria just give you a handful of grapes and a protein shake then?” It was intended as a joke but she seems to be right on the money.

“Sometimes. For breakfast. They don't want me vomiting that early in the day. And sometimes for dinner. To give my body some rest before I go to bed.” She notices how he doesn't say “fall asleep.” He has had insomnia for a long time, but more recently has been able to fall asleep no problem. She can't help but wonder if it was the drugs.

“What do you get for lunch?”

“A rotating list, based on the day. Uhm… I got… Ham yesterday.” She nods. 

“Yeah, it was Thanksgiving, baby.” He startles a bit, looking at her with wide eyes. Had it been that long? Over 2 months? He missed the first snow. Missed struggling to cook the turkey while she mashed potatoes. He thinks he lets out an involuntary whimper, like a kicked dog.

Abby coos again, putting both her hands on each cheek at his distress, elbows cushioned on the tabletop. “We went to my mom's. Got two of that Costco thanksgiving package. Wasn't the same without you. I'm just glad the babies won't really remember this.”

It's a small mercy, he thinks. “Where are they now?”

“My mom's, again. She's been a saint.” She doesn't mention how she's been insisting she divorce that “drug addict asshole” as soon as she can. She doesn't want to. She doesn't think she could divorce him if she was paid a billion dollars. 

He nods in relief. “Yeah. She always was,” He sighs out, almost wistfully remembering times before the addiction. Times when he could feel useful without distraction, distraction, distraction. Abby nods in agreement.

“...Love you,” She says softly, and he melts in her hands.

“I love you too. So, so much. So much.” He almost tears up with it, and she huffs a tiny laugh, wiping the corners of his eyes with her thumbs. He's been so easy to cry while in rehab, when before he wouldn't let himself cry at all. She was worried he'd forgotten how to.

He turns his head to kiss one of her palms and it's her turn to melt. “Sweet boy… What am I ever gonna do with you.” 

“...Love me until we die?” He says, almost hopeful, eyes wide like the puppy he got that the kids love too damn much to get rid of. She smiles wide and nods. 

“Always. In sickness and in health. I didn't say that just for the pretty words.”

“Good,” His voice cracks. “Cause I'm pretty sick right now.”

Her eyes are soft as she looks at him. “You are. But you're getting better.” She watches as he tears up all over again.

“Am I? It feels like the past… However long… Has been a dream. I don't even remember checking in.”

She fixed him with a look. “Then let me remember for you.” It's simple, and barely makes sense, but it's so heartfelt it makes the tears fall, dripping onto her palms. She wipes them away, keeping one hand on his face at all times. 

“...I'm cold, Abby,” He whispers. The facility stays quite warm in the daytime, so it's just a withdrawl effect. She puts the back of her left hand on his forehead and isn't shocked to find him feverish, again. 

“You might be actually sick, too,” She mutters. “Maybe a cold.” 

He thinks about it. His lungs do hurt, but he thought it was allergies and still lingering effects from when he got COVID in January (he knows for sure that COVID fucked up his throat at least a little, even if it was a relatively minor case of it.) “Maybe,” He accepts. As much as he likes being doted on by her, he hated being useless more. He wishes he had let her take care of him more often. He wishes a lot of things were different. 

He doesn't catch whatever she says next and it seems to discourage her. After another few minutes of just being lost, going back to his dissociation unwillingly, she finally gives him a kiss on the forehead he just barely leans into, a hand brushing through his hair he hums at, and packs up to leave. It was the most they'd talked since he got here, so… Progress is being made. Slowly.

Chapter Text

The next few days is a blur again, caught in a dream, heavily unhelped by a new med the psychiatrist is wanting him to try for anxiety. He can't even remember the name, but it's yellow and oblong and the nurse brings it to him with some aspirin every morning for him to take, which he swallows dutifully with the little water cup. It makes him vomit more for the first and second day but then his stomach settles some and the anxiety is lowered enough for him to honestly tell his doctor “I feel okay,” but that doesn't mean much because his definition of “okay” is lower than normal.

They upped his dose today, and he didn't vomit them up, so he calls it a win, even if they made him feel really weird. He considered telling a nurse, but also didn't want to be a burden or just be told it was entirely normal and he was over reacting. He thinks he'd rather die than be embarrassed right now. He's always hated that emotion.

His schedule is the same as ever but now that he feels like a sedated zombie instead of a withdrawing zombie, he can remember them better. Group feels like he's 17 again and in inpatient because he tried to see the inside of his wrists. Normal therapy feels like dancing around the elephant blocking the door.

The grapes for breakfast and dinner are still good, fresh and crisp, and he finds he can eat bread. Whole wheat only, unfortunately, the sugar in white bread being too much for his body. But toast gets added to his breakfasts, so he counts it as a win.

The little calendar behind the nurses desk changes over to the next month without much notice by him, but what does catch his eye is the green garland being hung up around the ceilings of the public rooms. It's thin, and sad, and probably break-away so no one gets any funny ideas while alone. It almost reminds him of how scared he was about Tanner and the blind cords. He ended up taping them well above where he could reach, even now, four - almost five - and steadily growing to be taller than his dad, because he got all the height from his mom's side of the family.

He's allowed to listen to music, he finds out, as long as it's pre-approved. So, no emo music he grew fond of when he was 12 and never outgrew. Anything even remotely close to emo, including just punk or 2010s rock, gets denied. So he's stuck with boring stuff the other residents pick. Usually country, because of course. You'd think he listened to enough of that back in Carolina. It reminds him of his mom, and then he wants to cry because damn, does he miss his mom. But she probably doesn't want to hear from him. Hasn't wanted to since before he left her house.

He's allowed some outside time, now that they aren't scared he'll trip and fall and break his head open, or try and climb the flimsy little fence to escape like some convict. He does laps around the place - and damn, it really feels like inpatient with that. He paces around the benches, the trees that seem older than the building, the little area with some gym equipment and a rock climbing wall he doesn't even want to try for fear of falling and breaking his back for real this time.

He gets about 8 laps in before he is tracked down by Not-Donnie and is told theres a visitor for him. He's mildly surprised for a moment, coming out of his fugue state some, and lets himself be lead to the main room.

Abby's already there, sitting in the metal chair, the same model he once saw a teenager come into the ER tangled around in somehow, the torso trapped in the hole between the seat and back rest, leg caught between the chair legs and the metal bar connecting them, and the folding mechanism trapping them from clambering out. Ultimately they had to unscrew the whole thing and he whined to Dana about “Why didn't the firefighters do it? They love to help stupid people and have a whole truck of tools,” and Dana leveled a look at him and told him to stop watching so much daytime TV and he relented, because he did start watching a firefighting show at the time. He doesn't think he's seen that show in half a year, now.

He only registers Abby talking when she lightly kicks his shin under the table. He finds himself sat in the chair across from her already, not remembering how he got there.

“Baby. Are you okay?” He nods loosely.

“Yeah. Yeah. Just… Tired.” It's a bit of an understatement, since he couldn't sleep more than 4 hours last night and hasn't been able to nap today. She gives him a sympathetic expression, one he doesn't know how to process fully. He thinks he might be upset that she's treating him like this, but that doesn't sound right. He loves anything she gives him.

“Okay…” She says quietly, like she doesn't believe him, and, okay, withdrawl is kicking his ass, but he doesn't think he looks that bad. Well, his hair is long, and messy, and he's probably sweaty, but that last thing is from his impromptu exercise, not the withdrawls for once.

She leans over the table to take his hand, and left handed as she is she tends to take his left. Their rings touch and if he was a poet he'd have something to say about that, about how they're connected legally and with some kind of red string from one ring to another that always looks for the other. But he isn't a poet. Almost failed English. So all he does is hold her hand back and give her a shaky smile.

“Love you,” He croaks out. She gives a matching weak and strained smile and repeats it.

“Love you.” She watches him closely, noticing things about him he didn't even notice, probably too out of it. She runs a finger over a scab gently.

“How'd you get this?” He glances down at it and thinks, but can't possibly come up with any explanation, so he just shrugs. She doesn't seem satisfied. Dog with a bone. She shakes her head softly.

The rest of the visit is quiet and calm and he is a little less fidgety than usual. He still moves, as comes with the ADHD, but none of it is born of anxiety. She eventually leaves after whispering soft things about how good the kids are doing, how much they miss their dad. He nods along occasionally, not wanting to talk very much. She packs up and he watches her go, her dress flowing lightly behind her. It's not one she wears to impress people, it's just one of the dresses she wears to be comfortable, when jeans or leggings feel too restricting.

He eventually drags himself up and when Not-Donnie - who he had eventually puzzled out after probably too long was assigned to watch him - asks where he wants to go he just says “Back outside,” so that's where Not-Donnie leads him.

It's cold, it being December, but not snowing yet. There's a few people outside, but he doesn't pay a lot of attention. He thinks there's some people making out in the corner but he makes sure to pay even less attention there than he pays the other few people. He starts back on his laps, feeling the ground under his shoes, the leaves crunching under his path.

On his 3rd loop he scratches his arm on the fence, and blood swells to the surface. He stills, watching the scratch weep. It's not extremely deep, but it's long and bleeding more than expected. It bleeds enough it drips onto the grass. He almost finds it interesting. He stands there bleeding for long enough that one of the nurses watching noticed, rushing over and herding him inside to examine it and wrap it.

He doesn't hiss in pain when they spray an antiseptic, even if it hurts. He can't show pain. Well, he can in theory, but there's some psychological thing preventing it. Maybe it's something related to his parents.

He keeps bleeding through the gauze they use, and the nurse is getting a little scared. He murmurs something about aspirin and SSRIs making people bleed more but it doesn't calm her. She presses the gauze down across his forearm as best she can, and tells him

“If this doesn't stop bleeding in 2 minutes, I'm calling an ambulance.”

That does worry him, because he knows this facility is in the catchment zone of the Pitt. He tries to reassure her but she levels him with a look, looking like a young Dana, and gestures to the 3 gauze pads he's bled through. He briefly wonders if she'll grow to be a badass charge nurse too.

She starts a timer on her watch for one minute as she presses down, and it doesn't even take the full minute for little red dots to appear on the white. She gives him a look and wheels around behind her to call for someone and he whines. He's not even that anxious. He almost wishes he was as he hears what must be this nurses supervisor dial 3 numbers on the phone on the wall.

Chapter Text

The only thing more embarrassing than being brought in by an ambulance with an escort from the rehab facility to his former-and-hopefully-future workplace, is locking eyes with Santos and watching her realize in real time he's dripping blood everywhere on the gurney from his arm. She's not sadistic, so she doesn't enjoy seeing him in pain, but she's still got some guilt and anger about him and it's hard for her to register the cocky man stealing drugs and endangering patients with the very out of it man on the stretcher.

Robby ends up next to him before Santos can even try to take him as her next case. “Frank? What's up?” His voice is careful, still raw with the memory of the last interaction they had, but right now, Frank was a patient who still seemed out of sorts and needed care. Robby’s face is fraught with lingering guilt, brows furrowed and a slight grimace. He wanted to visit Frank in rehab but he's always found an excuse. Too much work, or an appointment, or needing to clean…

“Uhm… Cut my arm on the. Fence.” His words are stilted and not as confident as usual, nearly tripping through his sentence. The worker from rehab - Frank isn't sure what job they have exactly - nods in confirmation. 

“Any new medications…?” Robby's voice is still careful, even as he helps Frank stand from the paramedics gurney and leads him to a free room. Frank locks eyes with Dana, and she almost looks relieved to see him, even if it's laced with concern. She had been meaning to call, but work has been genuinely too busy after her retirement scare, but she cares for him. The son she never wanted.

Frank nods after a moment too long. “Uhm. Aspirin. And…” He looks up to the rehab worker (He thinks it might be a social worker? He's not sure,) for help remembering his SSRI. They, thankfully, do remember, and tell Robby without more prompting.

Actual Donnie, not the look alike, comes into the room, shutting the door for privacy's sake, as if most of the ED didn't see him get wheeled in. It's almost a small mercy that Frank is too woozy to seem to notice the staring that followed him. Robby seems to be taking this one for himself. 

Robby slowly peels back the reddened gauze, revealing the cut that's still beading red against his too-pale skin. “This might not be deep enough for stitches, but I don't like how it looks… It should've stopped bleeding by now, even with the medications.” He glances up and locks eyes with the nurse, telling him to get iron and some other blood tests out of the way. 

Frank watches with some kind of childlike wide-eyed wonder as Robby falls into doctor mode, any anxiety about the ambulance bay slipping away. The combination of blood loss (even if he hasn't lost more than a pint at most,) new meds, and old withdrawls that should've stopped long ago by now makes increasingly loopy the longer he sits on the cot. 

He only realizes he was asked a question when Robby snaps his fingers in front of him. “Frank. Did you take anything?” He scowls and shakes his head vehemently. That only makes Robby more concerned (Shouldn't he be happy Frank was clean?) He calls for more tests to be ordered as he grabs glue to try and seal the wound. 

Donnie, ever the saintly nurse, warns Frank quietly as he puts the IV in. For the best, since Frank would've flinched. He watches the blood get drawn, (Small green cap for iron levels, 2x purple for tox screen, and white for infections,) occasionally glancing up at the bustle of the ER through the little window on the door. 

It seems like nothing's changed without him. He thinks she catches glimpses of Mel and McKay, but that could be wishful thinking. He doesn't see Collins once. He did hope he could see her. They were as close to friends as coworkers whos personality didn't mesh quite right could be, having studied together as med students and gone through residency together.

The worker from rehab (Security maybe?) watches this all, looking a mix between bored and antsy. He doesn't think it's a big deal but Robby keeps watching them like they're a rabid dog bound to snap. 

“Frank,” He starts, moving his eyes to lock with his. “Do you want to be alone?” His tone is recognizable. Franks used that same tone when asking if suspected abuse victims want to be alone, but there's no abuse here. Still, he thinks, if Robby wants it, it should be. He's still the best doctor Frank can think of, even Adamson, in the few years he knew him, was outshined by his protege. So, he gives a small nod, and Robby makes eye contact with Donnie, who can be intimidating when he wants to be, standing at six-foot. 

The worker is ushered out, even if they seem to protest some. Frank isn't really worried. He has Robby, and he may be the same five-foot-ten Frank is, but he's broader, and stronger, and doesn't have a bad back. He could protect Frank if need be. 

Once it's settled, Jesse seems to replace Donnie for now. He and Jesse aren't great friends, purely because Jesse is fairly quiet, in comparison to Frank's hyper and sometimes too loud persona. But, he's a good, even great, nurse, and he is more than happy to let him come in, even if it isn't standard for more than one nurse on a simple case like this. 

Jesse puts a saline bag (Probably. Frank didn't actually catch what it was, but it's clear,) on the IV pole, hooking up the line to the needle in his vein. It's a weird feeling, having it almost tingle through his arm. He's so focused on it he fails to realize again when Robby addresses him until his face is grabbed and physically turned to look at him. Frank just blinks, owlish. He can see his lips moving, can hear his voice, but doesn't register the words. 

Robby curses, putting another piece of gauze on his arm (He bled through the glue and another piece apparently) and telling Jesse something. The nurse picks up the phone on the wall, dialing an extension and talking at a bit more of a rapid pace than usual. 

Franks getting really woozy now. Way more than he should. His breathing locks up for a moment and his vision blurs. It's an odd feeling, one he is new to. It makes his thoughts sluggish and slower than the benzos or stimulants ever did. He shivers, but the shivers don't stop and get worse and more intense, and he stops remembering just after Robby's eyes widen and Jesse opens the door to yell something into the hall.

Chapter Text

When he wakes up, he's even more groggy. So much so that he can't get any thought in order. He's laid on his side and his chin is wet and drying with something, all he knows is that it's gross. His eyes barely focus in time for him to see Robby lean over his body, before a penlight is shined in his eyes. His first instinct is to cringe away, but Robby grabs his face to prevent that and checks his pupils.

“Equal and reactive,” He sighs out, heavy with relief. Frank can't really understand what that means right now, all his medical training failing him. 

There's hands on him, rolling him back over, then supporting him to sit up. It's good, because he thinks he's too limp to do either of these things by himself. His shirt is removed, and his first instinct is embarrassment because he normally would shave his chest and hasn't gotten around to it. Abby would call him, when he didn't shave, Sasquatch. It was just a joke, though. She liked him shaved as much as hairy. Where is Abby? He misses his wife.

They put a gown on him, one with little triangle patterns that he is intimately familiar with, and slide his pants off. Thankfully he's too out of it to be embarrassed those are also wet. They're put in a bag, and his chin is gently wiped down. He can vaguely see Dana by his bed, on the side that Robby isn't on. That makes him feel a little better. With both Robby and Dana… Nothing can go wrong. He can't mess up a procedure or forget to eat with them watching. 

They softly converse across his bed, the hands having lowered him back to laying down by now. The railings on his bed have blankets across them. They're old and scratchy and not so great but it's not like they have the budget for better ones that are also hypoallergenic. These ones must be a decade old, at least. 

“Did you call Abby?” That voice is deeper. Reminds him of Robby. But it doesn't feel like it came from Robby's body. It feels like it's all encompassing.

“Yeah. As soon as he came in.” That sounds like Dana. But it also comes from everywhere so it can't be her.

“Good. So she's on her way,” The voice of God speaks.

“Yeah. Maybe she can shed some light on what's going on with him. His meds shouldn't cause this. Not even with the withdrawls,” His lady speaks.

He almost misses church. The one with the big stained glass windows, not the one in rehab, sad and small and with no pastor to give a sermon. 

“Maybe. I hope.” God speaks again, using the body of Robby to hold his hand. 

They're quiet for a moment, God and his lady. Dana and Robby are silent too. They hold his hands tight, keeping them warm for his wife, his children. He misses his kids. So desperately. There's a beeping in the room, one he only registers when his heart aches and the beep is louder too. He can't quite understand what it is but after a moment of contemplation, he decides it must be God's alarm clock, powered by his heart. 

“She said she was going to drop off the kids at her mom's, so it may be a little bit.”

“...Yeah. I think he just… Needs her stability. He's so out of it I don't think he really knows who we are right now.”

That's not true, he wants to say. You're… He can't remember. Maybe they are right.

Another few minutes pass, tracked by the beeping of the clock, one and a half per second, 90 beats per minute, the higher end of normal, his brain supplies unconsciously. The door opens, the lights brighter outside the room than in. It must be Heaven outside the door. He wouldn't get in Heaven. It makes sense he's in a darkened room. Purgatory. 

“CT is ready to take him,” The angel speaks. They're too back-lit to see who it is. It can't be Micheal - there's already a Micheal in the room. 

Micheal nods, standing. There's some clicking and the bed shakes and his world is turning. He leaves the lady and Dana behind, entering heaven. It looks more familiar than he thought it would. He can see people he knows. He sees Mateo, and Javadi, by the nurses desk. They're staring. He sees McKay, with Whitaker. They're staring. He sees Santos. She's not quite staring. Her expression is hard set. 

“Let me take him up.” He can't mistake that voice for anyone but Santos. 

Micheal shakes his head. “I can't trust you with him.”

“Then let me help, at least. I can't just… Stand here. I have to… I have to help.”

Micheal takes a deep breath. The gurney, his casket, has stopped. The archangel is slow to respond. 

“...You may assist.” His voice is that of certainty, of power and truth.

Santos nods, a mere mortal in front of God's leader. Her hand attached to the covered bars keeping him in the casket, and his world spins again as he moves. He has to close his eyes, because nothing makes sense anymore. He's tired. 

The world gets darker and stops spinning, just for a moment. Then he can feel himself be risen, to what must be God's land above Heaven. 

After a moment there's a hitch of breath and knuckles dug into his chest. His eyes open, bleary and confused still. He looks up into the face of Robby, not Micheal, even if they sound the same. Robby seems to calm as his eyes open, head hanging between his shoulders and palm spreading out to press against his chest, his heart, to bless him.

“Tired,” Frank whispers, helplessly. Robby nods. 

“I know. …You can rest.”

He can see Santos gearing up to deny him sleep, but Robby fixes her with a look that shuts her up. Robby’s hand trails away from his chest, leaving the skin he touched burning. Micheal returns. There's silence for what must be forever, now that there's no clock to keep them with. 

“What happened?” Santos whispers. 

“We don't know.”

“We have to know something.”

“If we knew, I'd tell you.” The angel's voice is strained. "His tox screen will probably tell us but it hasn't come back yet."

Frank, eventually, loses to the pull of exhaustion, and can't eavesdrop any longer on the conversation between Man and Angel. 

Chapter Text

When he wakes up again he's a lot more lucid. The room is empty and he can't quite remember how he got here. He vaguely remembers something about Santos and church. He has more than one IV hooked up to him, one of the bags being a blood bag, and one being some kind of medication he can't make out. It's almost itchy in his arm but he knows better than to scratch. He feels more clear headed than he has in… A while. He has a long scratch up one arm, put together pretty tightly with skin glue. 

It's quiet and calm for a few minutes, even the heart monitor being muted. That almost makes it worse. He's tempted to crawl out of bed (Why does the bed look like it has seizure precautions?) and find the TV remote for some kind of stimulation. He hopes his insurance will cover this.

There's a small commotion outside his door - when is there ever not one in the ER? - and the door to his room opens, showing a very frazzled Abby. He perks up some, and shes a little taken aback he's awake. 

“Oh…! Frank…” She gets over her surprise quickly and rushes in to kneel on the ground next to him. He has half a mind to tell her to get up and off the floor because does she know what gets on that daily? But his mouth refuses to comply. Her hand winds into his and he weakly squeezes back.

“God, I was so worried. Do you know just how bad it was?” He furrows his brows and shakes his head slightly. She gives him her sympathetic look. He seems to be getting that a lot.

“You had- so many vitamin deficiencies and anemia and so many things wrong with you… I feel like I should sue that rehab.”

He's taken aback, eyes widening slightly. Was there really that many things wrong? He guesses he did feel really off the past while but he chalked it up to withdrawl and maybe a cold. 

“Robby said -” She chokes up, biting back a sob. He hates it, being the cause of her distress. “Robby said that if you were in the- your room in rehab when you had that seizure-” So he did have a seizure. “That you might not’ve… Been found in time… Cause by that point you were…” She can't bite back the sobs anymore, leaning into him and crying into his gown. His hand slowly goes to her back, trying to process it. He truly couldn't tell how bad it was. Still is, probably.

She sniffles, wiping her tears away for a second to give him a firm look. “You need to eat more iron, and take vitamins, and - and I'm not putting you back in rehab. I can go pick up you're stuff but you're coming home.” 

All he can do is nod in agreement. Abby was always way more stubborn than he was, and that's a feat. 

“Are you okay…? Or, at least, feeling better…?” He just nods slightly again. She furrows her brow. “Why aren't you talking, baby?” Her hand brushes back his hair, the few pieces that never stay out no matter how much product he uses. He shrugs lightly and it only makes her more concerned. She gets up off her knees - finally, it's not like they're young anymore and that probably hurt - to grab the nurse call button. He's half tempted to take it and turn on the TV like he wanted earlier. But Abby is always a better distraction.

In one of the quickest response times he's seen, a nurse enters - Donnie. He thinks he saw Donnie earlier when he was out of it but he can't remember. 

“What's up?” He says.

“He can't… He isn't talking.”

Donnie’s face scrunches. 

“Uhm… Sometimes it's… Sometimes after a seizure patients can get aphasia but it's… Usually resolved by now…” He logs onto the computer and scrolls through what must be Frank's chart. 

“...He didn't have it immediately after… He was talking for a second… I don't… Let me get Robby.” Frank watches him leave, mind whirring to try and find a reasoning for his own diagnosis of sudden aphasia. 

He tries to speak, tries to open his mouth to, and simply can't. It's like trying to move a muscle when paralyzed. He tests a bit more. He can grit his jaw, even bite, but can't open his mouth to speak, nor will his vocal cords to make noise. He tries to force it, huffing a breath out of his mouth, but it doesn't work. It's not common for him that frustration leads to tears, but this time he can feel the hot flush of stress and the tears that well up with it. 

Abby places a gentle hand on his jaw and turns him to look at her. She leans down, pressing her forehead to his. 

“I love you.” She whispers. It makes him tear up more, because he can't tell her he loves her too. She just shakes her head. “I know, baby. I know you do.” It just barely calms him, but her knowing isn't enough. He needs to tell her. But he can't. And it builds and builds until he can't hold it in and sobs, but even that is silent.

He shudders and shakes in her arms as he cries. She's so perfect with it, letting him get it out and comforting him just right. Rubbing his back, gently digging her fingers into the area around the spine that still spasms occasionally. It makes him twitch with pain, but it's a good pain, like pulling a tooth. A pain that feels right, that he almost wants more of.

He calms down slowly, breathing regulating. He wipes his face on her shirt just to hear her make a dramatic and affronted noise he knows she doesn't mean. “You brat,” She teases lightly. He gives a small shaky smile.

The door creaks open again, Robby in the doorway. Frank fully wipes his face on his wife's shirt now, pulling away. He's sure his face is red and blotchy from crying but he doesn't care. Any other day he'd be embarrassed. Any other day he’d be a little mad at Robby. But right now he just feels useless, and needs guidance, the kind he knows a doctor can give a lost patient, because he's had to do it countless times.

Robby sits in the rolling stool and scoots over to the side opposite Abby. 

“So. You got an MRI while you were out. And, Frank… I'm gonna be honest… it doesn't look good.”

He can feel his stomach drop as he looks at Robby, eyes wide. He's sure Abby has a matching expression.

“Frank, I'm officially diagnosing you with aphasia, causing mutism.”

It feels like the breath leaves him. 

“The seizure was long enough it caused some brain damage. But only to the language part of your brain.” Robby taps on the iPad for a moment, and turns it around so he can see the MRI. He can see the small part of it that's different. He assumes that Robby must've looped in Mehta, and Frank's glad Robby didn't let Mehta tell him. 

He turns the iPad back around, and taps around a few more times. “We want to keep you here for a while, for monitoring. And then we want to get you with a speech therapist right away. …Hopefully, you can-” Now Robby is the one choking up. “Hopefully, you can learn to speak again.” Robby can't look him in the eye. That's okay. He knows how Robby gets. He remembers having to hop around and twist around by the lockers in September to get even a second where Robby looked at him. 

“Your job will be waiting for you. When you are cleared, medically.” 

Chapter Text

He sits on the bed, after Robby left, just fidgeting with his hands. He knows it's not his fault, but it still feels like it is. He can't work like this, can't tell his wife, his kids, he loves them.

A speech therapist he's seen in the halls once or twice came into his room, but he mostly ignored her. Abby is the only one would could talk, anyways. She's his medical proxy, so it's not like he has to do anything. 

Abby has her head on his shoulder, curled up against him in the hospital bed. She's mindful of the wires and tubes connected to him, still giving him vitamins and blood that actually has iron in it. His back aches. A lingering bitter taste, like after a pill, is on the back of his tongue, even if he knows that's not actually possible. He hasn't touched a benzo in 2, 3 months. He's clean. If he went to an NA meeting they'd give him a chip. 

He doesn't tell Abby this. He was given a white board and a tablet with text to speech on it, but using those feels like a moral failure. Maybe this is just karma, from stealing. 

God, his back aches. He hasn't had any pain killers, not even Tylenol. He could ask for some - he knows for sure Dana and Robby would approve it. But he can't bring himself to press the nurse button, because then he'd need to use the aids. And he can't. He simply can't. He can't be disabled. 

He isn't disabled. There's no way he can be. Disabled means like, on crutches. He struggles to even think of Abbot as disabled, even if he's literally an amputee. So he can't be. He never accepted the ADHD as a disability, so there's no way that this can be one either. He just needs to man up and get over it. 

He knows, logically, that's not how it works. He knows that anyone can be disabled. He knows that, by every definition, he was disabled before this too. Mentally, with the ADHD. Physically, because of his back. And now, much more obviously, with the mutism. It's annoying, that he has these two opposing ideas warring in his head. He's a hypocrite. He knows that.

He bites at his second knuckle, digging his teeth in. It distracts him from the aching back for long enough to get a small reprieve. He's interrupted from his gnawing by Abby pulling his hand away from his mouth. He tries to make an affronted noise and looks at her. She's not disappointed, no, never. But shes not happy either. 

“Don't bite at yourself, Frank,” She whispers. He huffs petulantly but relents. 

“Sorry,” He thinks, not really meaning it. It's not like he can tell her anyways. She runs her thumb across his knuckles. She doesn't touch the reddened spot where his incisors dug in. 

“You'll be okay,” She says, still in that quiet tone. He just nods, still not meaning it. 

Abby's phone rings, somewhere in her bag on the chair she was previously sat at. He shifts so she can wriggle her way around to grab it, fumbling to look at who's calling, then answering.

“Mom? Hey, yeah.” Shes facing away from him. He can just barely hear the voice of his mother-in-law on the phone. 

“…Yeah, he's okay. …No. …No, really, you don't have to do that. I've got it. …Yeah. …Maybe. I was gonna try and see if I could. …No, he’s-” She glances at him. He just watches her back. 

“He can't speak. No, like… He’s - He's been diagnosed with something. From the seizure. …Yeah. It's, uh, brain damage. …Yeah, exactly. …Did she? I didn't know that. …Oh. That would… Really? You'd do that?” Her eyes begin to sparkle with unshed tears. He can just barely see it past the curtain of her hair. She always did cry easily, when she wasn't being strong. His hand presses lightly on her back, a gentle weight. She glances back at him, leaning into his touch ever so slightly. Her hand moves to hold his arm, tracing the muscles there.

“No, I'd love that. I'm sure he'd appreciate it too. …Anytime is good. …Yeah, yeah, tomorrow then. …He's in the hospital for monitoring for another night, but then we’ll be cleared, so you can have the house to yourself tomorrow. …Yeah, he's on an anti-seizure medication now. Not sure which. …No, I know, but he's not Uncle Wilmer and he's not throwing up because of them. Okay, Bye Mom. Bye. Yup. Bye.”

She tosses the phone back, not too gently, into her bag. He winces a bit, but she doesn't seem to care. She curls back up into his side, her head resting over his heart and a hand over the ribs on the other side of his chest.

“My moms aunt, she had a stroke and got aphasia, long time ago. She passed a few years ago but they still have some of her aids in storage, and she offered to get them for us.”

He nods slowly. He knows he needs them. But he doesn't want to rely on them. It feels like it'd be a mistake. But he knows he should get used to it. He grasps blindly with his right hand to find the tablet on the rolling table, trying to not disturb her. He pulls it over to himself, propping it up on one leg and typing out a few words, deleting, and typing a bit again.

“Okay,” Reads the overly robotic voice. Why are text to speech devices so outdated? “I'll try.”

She grins softly up at him, and it gives him a weird sense of pride. He tries to speak, or make a noise, but it comes out more like an awful snoring noise and makes him cough. Abby helps him lean forward and pats his back.

“Hey, there you go, baby. You made a sound. That's something.” He looks at her with wide eyes once he catches his breath. It sounded like a dying frog, yeah, but it was still a sound. He made a sound. Maybe he isn't totally hopeless after all. Maybe he can recover in time.

Chapter Text

The rest of the hospital stay is dreadfully boring. Abby leaves at some point to help her mom and deal with the kids, and he just sleeps through it all. He half wakes up every time the nurses check on him, but is determined enough to sleep through missing Abby he barely notices and doesn't remember when he fully wakes up. Abbot ends up being the one shaking him awake gently, both checking on Frank and needing to talk to him.

“Hey. Frank. What the hell happened? Why are you boarding in the ED?” 

He grimaces, wanting to speak, but can't. Abbot seems to realize, and hands him the tablet. Frank Powers it on and starts typing.

“Cut arm. Vitamins fucked. Seizure. Can't talk.”

Abbot just snorts. “Yeah, I read your chart. Was the rehab really that bad? Do I need to kill someone.” 

The worst part about that is Frank doesn't doubt Abbot would. He's been somehow more protective of the ED than Robby. 

“No,” is all he types for a moment, thinking. The device automatically reads it out.

“No. I just,” He pauses again. After a few seconds the tablet reads the text.

“I don't remember. I couldn't eat. I guess it was the withdrawl.”

Abbot shakes his head. “Not really. The first two months, maybe. But the third, something was going on. What meds did you take?”

“I used to be on naproxen. They changed it to aspirin when I started taking a SSRI.”

He shakes his head lightly. “Those two meds don't mix. And aspirin wasn't found in your tox screen. Frank,” Abbot leans in closer, propping himself against the beds railing, taking on his “gentle” face, even if it's just barely less deadpan than normal. “We found some inconsistencies. Are you sure it was aspirin?" He nods. “Who gave it to you?”

“I don't know. He looked like Donnie.” Abbot nods and pats his shoulder.

“Good job. Thank you.” Frank doesn't know why he's being thanked, he couldn't even remember the guys name. Abbot pushes off the railing, pulling out his phone and typing in a phone number. Frank can't see who it is, and Abbot closes the door before he can hear the conversation.

Just when he thinks he's about 2 seconds from coding out of boredom and anticipation, Abbot opens the door again. 

“Okay, Frank, here's what we're gonna do. You'll be discharged early. But come in tomorrow at shift change, and we will get you to meet with a speech therapist. I can take you myself if you want.” 

He thinks. It wouldn't be terrible, but he thinks he would rather go with his wife. He shakes his head.

“No,” the overly robotic voice reads. “Abby.” Abbot nods, messing with his chart on the computer for a moment. 

“Alright, I'll call her, tell you you're ready for discharge. You can't drive, probably shouldn't until we know for sure you won't seize again.” Frank nods, expecting that. It's not like he loves driving, so it's not a huge loss. 

Abbot sits by his bedside, dialing a number, and keeps it on speaker as Abby picks up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Abby, this is Doctor Abbot. Franks ready for discharge, whenever you can come pick him up. Gotta clear the room, y'know.” The gentle teasing makes Frank give a shaky smile.

“Oh, yeah, okay. I'll be there in maybe… 20 minutes.” Abbot nods, even if she can't see him.

“Alright. See you soon.” He hangs up, the dial tone ringing out in the air for a second. Abbot pats Frank's thigh over the thin hospital sheet. 

“I'll get your clothes so you can get out of that gown.” Frank nods, grateful, taking the bag handed to him. It's got his soiled clothes separated from some clean clothes he kept in his locker as a spare. Robby must've kept the code - and the locker. Before he can fry his brain going over that too much, he decides to just focus on getting dressed. 

Abbot removes the now emptied IV and helps until the gown so Frank can shove it off and pull the shirt on. It's a sweater that was just a bit too tight and thinning in some spots, but since he's lost more than a couple pounds it seems to fit slightly loose. It's disconcerting, but he pushes away any body dysphoria that this might cause heavily, packing it up in a mental box to never touch again. He kicks off the blanket so he can wriggle into some pants, just some random black jeans he thinks used to be Abby's based on how they're cut. 

“You look gay,” Abbot teases. Frank knows it doesn't come from a place of malice because Abbot likes to over share about what bar hookup he got at the gay bar last week. “If this is your entire wardrobe I get why you kept getting hit on by guys.” Frank had mentioned once, during a double, that when he went out with his wife on a date, the waiter kept hitting on him. Frank’s a little shocked he remembered. 

“Yeah, yeah, don't give me that wide eyed look. I remember things.”

Abbot teases him for a little longer while they wait, showing him a meme saying “My daughter loves him, I think he looks a little gay, but whatever makes my princess happy,” and promptly takes a picture of Frank to put under the caption. By the way Abbot is giggling he thinks it's probably being sent to the whole ER. He doesn't think he'll ever doubt Mehta about his “Laughter is the best medicine” belief, because hearing his friend(?) giggling to himself like a little kid does lift his spirits quite a bit. It certainly makes him feel better about being in a hospital bed. 

Abbot shows him the image once he's presumably sent it around enough it'll haunt him for a while, and he has to admit, it's a pretty good meme. He relents with a small nod and a half grin, and Abbot seems to take pride in his approval. 

Abby eventually shows up, and with both her and Abbot herding him out of the ER, he almost misses Santos. She must've pulled a double. She stares at him from across the nurses station, and Frank can only stare back for a few seconds before he's being shepherded outside and into his wife's car.

Chapter Text

The ride back home is silent - not that Frank has a choice to be anything but quiet. He watches out the passenger window as they drive, the highway parallel to the river. There's a few boats on the river he watches. They're just small cargo ships, probably not for international shipping. It's a good distraction, letting himself get lost in thinking about what they're carrying. He only notices them get off the highway when they get stopped at a red light. He glances at Abby, watching her bathed in the red light. It's late - nearing 10 pm. Her hair is messy, stray fly-aways all over the place, a little greasy and unwashed. He thinks this is the most beautiful she's ever looked. He wishes he could tell her. He settles for leaning over, a hand on the back of her neck, pulling her in for a chaste kiss. She makes a small surprised hum, but leans into it.

“That's sweet of you,” She says quietly as she breaks the kiss, as if trying to not disturb the silence in the car, smiling to herself. He just grins at her, proud of himself for making her happy. He leans back into his seat, letting her go as the light changed to green, making her eyes seem just that more beautiful. He watches her with the same intensity he watched the ships, if not more. Watches as the lights change across her face, white lights of the city changing to yellow street lights. 

He's not exactly excited, as they pull into the driveway. He wants to see his kids but can't deal with the energy, and half hopes they're asleep. His mother in law mostly tolerated him, and it's probably exacerbated by the rehab for the benzos, but is kind, so she would of course give him a disability aid that would otherwise be expensive and give them a break from the kids. His small smile slowly fades as he tries to work up the courage to leave the car. Abby sits by him in solidarity. 

He decides eventually to just suck it up and opens the door, immediately shivering. He had gotten a taste of how cold it was earlier when he left the hospital, but he also wasn't trying to put something off then. He (metaphorically) hems and haws on the driveway, shifting from foot to foot, until Abby takes his hand and leads him inside.

As she unlocks the front door, he shudders. A slightly evil part of him considers faking another seizure, but Abbot will kill him and then Abby would castrate him, and he has a little bit of an attachment to his life and parts, not to even touch on the moral (and financial) ramifications. He already has enough bad karma for a lifetime - even if in rehab, he recalls being told a few times that addiction has no worse of karma as catching a cold does. Even if they're not exactly the same. Even if he stole and committed a felony and he's going to spiral on his front porch and he can't help it.

His breath catches, choking up. He pulls his hand from Abby's as she gets the door open, turning to face the driveway. He can't. He just can't. He can't go back inside his perfect white picket house for the first time since before rehab and have it be when he's fucked up like this. 

Before he can spiral into a full panic attack, the dog, the little puppy he bought for his kids, now much bigger and almost the size of a full dog, barrels out of the house, ignoring the calls of Abby and his mother in law somewhere deeper in the house. The dog yelps and whimpers so much he almost worries his neighbors will think he's hurting it. It dances around his feet, jumping up on him - and wow, it's paws reach all the way up to his belly now. He remembers it as a tiny little thing not even a foot tall. But it clearly remembers him - surprisingly so. He would've thought the dog had forgotten him. He only knew the dog for a week and a half. He slowly kneels on the concrete, feeling the cold seep into his pants, petting the soft curly hair. 

He picks the wiggly puppy up, struggling to stand back up with no free hands. He hesitates but gives the puppy a little kiss between the eyes. It seems so utterly overjoyed to see him he tears up. He can't help it. He's still as easy to make cry as he was in rehab. He carries the golden mix through the threshold into his house. It has a smell. He's been away so long, he forgot the smell of his own place, and now he has to relearn it. He hears Abby lock the door behind him, saying something he doesn't pay attention to. He's too focused on the dog. It's squirmy and so clearly loves him still. He hides his face in the fur, walking blindly to the couch and settling on it with the dog in his lap.

He feels the couch depress, Abby sitting next to him. She places a hand on his shoulder blade. “...He loves you.” She whispers. Frank just nods. He mouths the words “Baby, puppy, baby… Love you,” into his fur. He doesn't think he bothered to learn the puppy's gender when he got it. Of course the dog got attached to the one who didn't love it back. Now that he's a little less numb he can see the dog for what it is - something pure, uncorrupted by him even at his worst and it's most vulnerable. 

He sniffles a bit longer into the puppy's fur while it calms down. Abby rubs his back the whole time. He glances at her, hoping she can look past his glassy eyes and somehow read his mind and understand that he wants to know it's name. His name. 

He has no such luck, Abby just using her free hand to pet the dogs back. It seems to be calmed, panting in his arms. The puppy breath is quite gross but he doesn't pull away. It's not the worst thing he's smelled, not by a long shot, and he has a strong stomach. He rubs and pats the dog for a while, shifting to lay his head on Abby's lap and the dog across his chest. It seems to get the memo and curls up on him. It warms him up from the cold outside better than any kind of heater. 

Chapter Text

Eventually, Abby has to go help her mom with the kids - and he thinks his in law might be avoiding him, but whatever, he doesn't wanna see her either. He watches her walk away with soft eyes, then turns back to the puppy. It's snoring on his chest and he pats it gently. It's tail wags a little in sleep and it's so cute he melts. 

The dog distracts him for a while, just long enough for his thoughts to wander. And, maybe he's weak, or maybe it's the addiction still lingering, a thing that won't ever go away, but he has to know. He has to. So he slips the dog carefully off his chest and onto the couch - it blinks up at him but after some soothing lays back down - and carefully stalks through the house. 

He glances at the kids room, and it aches, it aches and aches, but he wants more than it aches. He slips into the bathroom, pulling down his shaving kit. He unzips it quiet as he can and pulls out things. They clink, but he thinks it's quiet enough to not be noticed. There's a small pocket in the bag, meant for the brush to clean off the razor, but he had put a ziplock bag inside. He had a few stashes around the house, in places he's sure Abby nor the kids could find. 

He feels a wave of emotion when he realizes the pocket is empty. Disappointment, anger, and guilt, namely. Mostly at himself. A little at Abby for taking it, but then he just feels more guilty about that. 

He puts the kit back together, and shoves it back in its spot. He's mostly just upset at himself, his guard down, when he turns and sees Abby in the doorway. He jumps, a small burst of adrenaline coursing through him, before he relaxes some and burns with shame. She doesn't seem mad with him, and it's a small mercy.

“You told me,” she says quietly. He looks to her for clarification. “The 3rd or so week. You told me all of the places you stashed pills. You really… You really hid one in the kids room?” He pales, feeling the blood drain from his face. “It was where they couldn't reach, sure, but what if it fell?” She shakes her head, cutting herself off. “No, no, sorry. I can't be… Can't be doing that to you. You were out of your mind.” She's a better person than him, it seems, because he's certainly blaming himself for it. 

She puts her hands on his shoulders and guides him back out to the living room. He's always been submissive to her, letting her take his metaphorical leash and lead him wherever in life. He let her find what house she wanted to buy, what cars they got, when/if they wanted kids. In his mind, she's always been more important than him. And maybe that's why, when he felt her slipping, he fell into the drugs. 

She sits him on the couch, padding off to the kitchen. He can hear her clanging around, and the stove clicking, and the various sounds of cooking. He doesn't turn to fully face her. He doesn't deserve it. It sounds cliché, when he thinks about it. The self-loathing drug addict, who despite hating it and himself keeps doing it, giving into the addiction. 

The dog woke up when he sat down, but was just staring at him for a while. Eventually it wriggles into his lap and he shifts to accommodate it. He winces and nearly doubles in on himself in pain when the dog accidentally steps on his crotch, but breathes through it until it's just a throb instead of sharp, petting the dog weakly. Normally he would've yelped or something, but even instinctively he can't make noise. It kills him more than a little, even if he knows it's fixable. This will all be a story to tell at bars in time. 

Abby put a plate of food on the coffee table in front of him and looks over his strained face and the puppy in his lap, putting two and two together. “Oh, baby,” she coos, picking up the squirmy pup and putting it on the floor for now. “He got you good, huh?” Frank just nods, a hand instinctively going to protect himself. 

“Okay, well, just try and distract yourself. I made catfish - Dad caught it last week and I've been saving it.” He nods gratefully and leans over, grabbing the plate and putting it over his lap, slowly starting to eat. It's good, but everything Abby makes is good, and he just likes fish. 

It does, in fact, distract him. The pain fades to nothing as he eats, but as it fades the ever lingering back ache comes back. The pain in his groin had distracted him rather well from the ache. He thinks the bed in rehab made it worse. He can't wait to sleep in his own bed. 

He doesn't even consider that the food might give him nausea, too distracted by one of his favorite foods and his wife and the dog. But when he puts the plate down a cold wave of dread washes over him, and he does a mental restock. Normally, he would already be feeling a twisting in his gut, but it isn't there. He decides to take it at face value, hoping to a god he's not sure he believes in that he won't vomit up the first home-cooked meal he's had in ages. 

Abby coaxes him up and into their bedroom. They pass the kids room again on the way there, and he can hear his mother in law puttering about in there. Abby lays him down on the bed and pulls the blanket over him. The look Frank gives her clearly lets her know that was a bit much, and she gives a sheepish look back, clearly too used to taking care of the kids. She pats his chest. 

“I'll get the tablet set up tomorrow, but I need you to rest right now.” He grumbles mentally and shifts around a lot, but he eventually settles and listens, her glare helping him decide to not be as much of a brat as he wants to be. He lays on his back, slowly relaxing. It really does feel good on his back. The bed is expensive, and made to support spines and stay cool at night. He saved for a year to get it. 

What wakes him up temporarily from his half asleep state is the dog trying hard as he can to clamber up on the bed next to him, but being still too small. Abby picks him up and plops him next to Frank, who he cuddles right up next to, happy as a clam, sighing deeply and immediately falling asleep. It almost makes Frank jealous. He wraps his arms around the dog, settling back in. It's easier than it was the first time to fall asleep like this. He missed not sleeping alone. It was hell in the rehab to sleep in the hard, small bed, no one else to cuddle against if he got too cold. 

It's probably not the best decision to be thinking of rehab as he falls asleep, because he very quickly starts having a nightmare.

It's the kind of nightmare where he knows it's a nightmare but can't wake up. It's the winding entrance/exit of the facility, endless corners. If he turns around, it's just the same thing as the other direction. He eventually wakes up, sweating and shivering, but the bed isn't right, and he's alone, and cold, and sick to his stomach. He turns over the edge of his bed and vomits and shakes and shivers. It seems to last forever. Hes so weak, he falls out of the bed, and wakes up again, panting. This time he's sure he's actually awake. The house is cold and empty, not warm and lively, even when everyone was winding down for sleep. The ceiling creaks and falls in on him.

He knows for certain when he actually wakes up, because his wife is over him, looking at him worried, and the dog is licking at his face and he's sweated through his shirt. He's much more embarrassed to find he's soaked the sheets with more than sweat, but Abby doesn't seem to mind. She coaxes him to stand and leads him gently to the shower, heading back to the bedroom to change the bed and put out a new set of clothes for him.

He leans against the wall under the water. The showers in rehab were okay, but dirty, and he couldn't bring himself to trust them. But here, he knows the wall he leans on is so clean he could lick it. Abby wouldn't have it any other way. He's falling asleep standing up under the spray by the time Abby checks on him. She turns the water off and places her hand on his cheek, gently turning him to look at her.

“Oh, baby… You're exhausted, huh? It's been a shitty time for you.” He just nods. He hasn't slept right since he went off the benzos. They helped him sleep amazingly. He never dreamt and always slept at least 9 hours. It definitely screwed with his sleeping habits, because he's pretty sure he has even worse insomnia now. Or it could just be from sleeping so far from those he loves. 

Abby once again leads him through the house, after helping him tiredly dress. The new sheets are soft and he's missed that, too. He either slept on a bare mattress or a sheet with an awful texture, and he's not sure which evil he preferred. He curls up, feeling faintly the towel under the sheets. Abby settles in next to him, the dog wiggling it's way under his blanket and tucking himself against his belly. He's so tired, and so comfortable, it's easy to drift off again, no more nightmares this time.

Chapter Text

When he wakes up, he tries to delay it, wanting somewhere in his mind to just rot in bed today. He fakes being asleep past Abby's alarm, past her taking the dog out, past her sitting back in bed and resting her hand on his back.

“Frank,” she says quietly. “I'm not letting you do this.” She knows him. Knows how he can be. Stubborn doesn't encompass it. Petulant gets closer to the truth. 

“I'll give you one of those good muffins you like. I have a few. Then we’re gonna go meet up with Abbot and Robby, and then drive to this appointment. Okay?” He just furrows his brows and grits his teeth, not moving. Abby sighs, standing up. He can hear her moving around, and she wraps arms around his middle from behind. He's 5’10 and 145 (maybe closer 130 post-rehab) pounds, so it's not like she can pick him up, but she sure can manhandle him onto the floor. 

He topples, along with the blanket, down to the ground, eyes shooting open and staring at her wide. He mouths “What the fuck?” to her. She just shrugs. 

“You wouldn't get up,” She says, like it explains anything, then turns on her heel and walks out of the room, leaving him on the carpet. He watches her walk away, mildly bewildered.

Eventually, he gets up, shuffling out to the living room. The kids and dog are gone already, presumably with his mother in law, and he grits his teeth. He wanted to see them. He misses his kids. 

Abby distracts him from his longing by handing him a small tablet. It has a thick rubber case, the kind you might find on a kids tablet. He clicks the power button and it shows a text to speech input screen immediately. He types in a few random words, just to test it.

He jumps slightly as it plays “Apple, Horse, Dog,” and a few other random words he typed in at full volume. He moves the tablet around, looking for the volume button frantically, while his wife laughs. It makes him smile slightly, hearing her cackle at him. He finally turns the volume down to a reasonable level, glancing up at her as she laughs and laughs. It makes him go a little weak in the knees. It always has. 

He slowly comes up to her, standing in front of her. He waits until she's calmed to lean down and press a soft kiss to her lips. She giggles a few more times into his mouth, but he doesn't mind. He nearly drops the tablet he's so distracted, but blindly tosses onto the couch. He sighs against her mouth, losing himself in her. He can't believe he almost let this slip away from him. His hand rests on the back of her neck gently and her arms wrap around his back. It hits him that he doesn't fully remember when he last kissed her like this was. He's given her quick pecks on the way to work, or when she was leaving him at rehab. It must've been 5 months at least. It seems crazy in hindsight; kissing his wife is a better high than the benzos ever were. 

They spend what seems like forever wrapped up in each other, like they're in their 20's again and he's still an intern, and she hasn't even had Tanner yet. He mouths “I love you” against her lips. It's okay if she doesn't hear him, this time. He's sure she can feel it. 

Eventually, they break from the kiss, just leaning foreheads on eachother and breathing the same air. Abby's phone rings and she ignores it the first time, but the second time she pulls away from Frank. He tries to whine, but his vocal chords don't comply. He briefly considers adding a soundboard and a dog whimper noise to the tablet. Abby picks up her phone, listening for a bit and saying some quiet words. She hangs up and pats him on the back.

“Come on, baby, gotta go do your therapy.” 

He reluctantly gets dressed, picking up the tablet forgotten on the couch, following her out to the car. The drive to the ER is calming, but the parking never is around PTMC. He lets her silently stress over it, following her in. The atmosphere immediately gives him a headache. 

The bright lights and loud noises make behind his eyes ache. Abby waves down Abbot and Robby, both at the nurses station talking quietly as they go over patients. They glance at him and Abby, Robby coming over while Abbot stays. 

“Frank, Abby, hey guys.” They nod in greeting. Abby goes through the motions, Robby giving her the address and sending conspicuous looks Frank’s way. He's not as bad as Abbot, who has a bit of a staring problem to the point it almost makes his skin crawl.

“Well,” Robby starts. “You should be good to get out of here.” Frank fumbles with his device, typing “Please,” and copy-pastes it enough times it reads more like “Please please please please please please.” He presses play on the text to speech and it makes Robby and Abby laugh slightly, making his pride swell.

“Well, you've gotten the hang of that now, haven't you?” Robby says, lightly teasing. Frank gives his best sparkling grin. Abby giggles softly and Robby pats his back. 

“Okay, get out of here. The therapist is expecting you.”

Abby insists on giving a brief goodbye to Abbot, who is more than happy to chatter on with Abby, even as he stares at Frank more often than not. Eventually, he shoos them off out the door as he gets ready to leave himself.

Frank's the first one out the door this time, not waiting up to follow behind Abby, not able to wait before getting out of the sensory hell that is the ED. He closes the car door as he gets in and sighs. At least he has a warm sweater on so he isn't cold.