Work Text:
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Lilac short skirt, the one that fits me like skin.
It’s a miracle Mel still had the skirt. She bought it during undergrad—the early years when she tried to have a social life—to wear to a bar. She remembered liking the way she looked in it, how the silky material softly clung to her curves, how boys noticed her when she walked. Mel doesn’t usually care how strangers look at her, let alone men, but she still recalls all these years later how nice it felt to be wanted in that lilac skirt, her short-lived nightlife.
Anyway, Mel is quite practical about her clothes, purging her closet every year. She donates what doesn’t fit or she doesn’t wear anymore, but the skirt miraculously makes the cut every year. At first, Mel kept it in case she ever wore it again, and then she kept it because it was a nostalgic undergraduate memory, figuring if she’s kept it this long, why toss it away now? And now, she keeps it because she can’t stop thinking of how Langdon had reacted when he found the skirt in her closet two months ago.
Mel was doing her annual purge—clothes, books, furniture, etc.—and Langdon had offered to help her pack things up and donate them.
It was sticky-warm in her room, both Frank and Mel having peeled off layers of clothes while working through Mel’s meticulously organized system. Wrong pile, Frank! She chastised when she caught him tossing a rogue book into the knick-knacks pile. How did you even see that? He called back incredulously.
They were tired and hot but in a comfortable lazy way, enjoying the stray beams of sun on their skin while they gradually inched closer to each other on the floor. Langdon would hold up an item, and Mel would either say donate or keep, never really explaining her reasoning unless Langdon asked. You’re giving away this Nirvana shirt? He protested, having an affinity for 90s rock. I went through a Hot Topic phase, but the baby on the cover bothers me, she shrugged. (She actually ended up donating it to Langdon, who wanted to pass this “relic”—his words—to his daughter when she was older).
As they went, Langdon desperately tried not to think of what she looked like in the jeans, old college t-shirts, and flannel pajamas he folded, but when he held up the skirt, he knew he was done for.
“Mel?” He choked out, feeling the smooth fabric on his fingertips, eyeing up the length of the hem, the dainty feminine color, and only imagining—or trying not to—how she looked in it.
“Oh, donate,” she decided, turning back to her pile.
“Donate? Why?” Langdon asked, probably a tad too quickly.
She faces him again. “I wore it once, in a bar. My life is work and Becca, I really have no occasion to wear it,” Mel replied, practical as always. She waited for him to put it into the donate pile, but his fingers were still holding the skirt, cautiously, as if he was afraid of tearing it. “Why?” Mel finally asked. “What do you think?”
“I think,” Langdon breathes out harshly. Mel in a skirt. Mel in a bar. Mel in a skirt in a bar. Jesus. “I think I want to see you in it.” His voice is low. The fan hums above them, ruffling Langdon’s tousled hair, chilling Mel’s skin.
She blushes as she tosses the skirt in the keep pile.
So she’s finally wearing the skirt again, in a bar no less, sipping on a Shirley Temple and chatting with Samira, Trinity, and Victoria.
Many of the Pitt staff were at Mario’s in Shadyside, celebrating Javadi’s 21st birthday. They were gathered on the rooftop, surrounded by twinkling lights and laughter, the Pittsburgh weather thankfully warm for once.
“Mel, can I just say again, I love you in that skirt,” Samira compliments.
“Damn right, I’d tap that!” Santos joins in.
“Thank you, I think?” Mel tilts her head.
“I’m just gonna pretend you’re not wearing it for that douche-canoe Ken knock off,” Santos mutters.
“Oh, it’s not–I’m not,” she stammers, understanding who she is referring to as douche-canoe Ken, “I just found it in my closet,” Mel defends, but it’s no use. Everybody, at this point, realized there was something going on with Mel and Frank.
When Langdon came back to the Pitt six months ago, Mel wasn’t sure what to expect, or what to do with her emotions. She was angry. Worried. Relieved. Her hands wrung in her lap over and over again.
But once she sensed the eerie silence washing over the ER, she couldn’t stop herself from looking, where piercing blue eyes and a lopsided grin were waiting for her. Then she heard the familiar timbre of his voice.
Hey, Mel. It’s good to see you.
3 hours into the shift, they were glued at the hip again.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Did your research, you knew the price going in.
In the following weeks after his return, Langdon and Mel began to figure each other out.
No tomatoes, Mel said, wrinkling her nose when Langdon offered to split his BLT. Makes the bread soggy.
Matcha? Really, Mel? I prefer my caffeine not to taste like shitty lawn clippings.
But then he started bringing an extra sandwich with no tomato, and Mel would buy a Red Bull when she stopped at the vending machine.
Langdon could tell when Mel needed a break, even before she noticed it. Oftentimes, he’d join her after he sent her off to take 20, once she had a few minutes to decompress first. He patiently waited until she found the words she wanted to say. He didn’t always try to cheer her up; just being there, understanding the toll her emotions took on her, brushing his knee against hers, was enough for Mel.
But Langdon liked being the first one to cheer her up, too. Her lips twitched when she smiled, as if she was trying to suppress the happiness bubbling up inside of her.
Langdon found himself opening up to Mel about his divorce, and Mel talked about the loss of her mother.
They started out really platonic and wholesome, honestly.
Everyone, including Robby, could see that they were benefiting from each other. Langdon became more patient, slowing down to understand patients, and even his colleagues, better. Mel began to lean into her empathy as a strength, and adapted her regulation routine to the chaos of the ER as best as she could.
At some indiscernible point in their relationship, however, things shifted between them.
Their limbs began to magnetize to each other—in the break room, during procedures, at the nurses station.
Their shoulders naturally leaned against each other’s when they sat on the floor. They’d play footsies, share airpods, hold hands in comfortable silence.
There’d be an encouraging shoulder squeeze after Mel successfully executed a new technique, following Langdon’s instructions whispered low into her ear. Gentle hands pushing a stray lock of Langdon’s old Hollywood style hair back in place. A hand on her lower back as he guided her to a case.
When Mel discovered Langdon refused anything for his back pain, she looked into alternatives, showing him effective back stretches, lending him a heating pad, swapping out with him to hunch over patients and finish suturing. If he winced mid-shift, she would pull him aside, massaging IcyHot deep into the tense muscle knots of his lower back, while he softly groaned under her ministrations, elbows bracketing his head to brace himself on a wall.
He didn’t love that Mel was taking care of his back, because he felt like an old man, but he did love Mel’s hands on him, so it evened out.
This would be easier if you laid down, Mel pointed out on a day where his back was particularly inflamed. Once she convinced him to lay down on the on-call room bed, she straddled her legs around his, resuming her careful work.
“Jesus, Mel,” he groaned once she was seated comfortably.
“I’m sorry! Did I hurt you?” she began to climb off.
“No, no,” his arm shot out to keep her thigh in place. “Feels nice, is all.”
“Oh, okay. Good,” she said breathlessly, the heat of his hand searing her skin through her scrubs.
When she was done, they were both a little flustered.
“I-I’m just going to check on some patients,” she sprung up, like a tight coil.
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll see you out there,” Langdon said raggedly, not daring to get up from his position. He didn’t want her to see that he was hard, achingly so.
Langdon had a hunch that Mel liked his hand on her thigh.
If she was sitting at the nurses station to chart, he would do the same, sliding his chair next to hers, placing a warm palm on her thigh, listening to her breath hitch.
Once, he squeezed her thigh before standing up to leave, and her back straightened as if a current shot up her spine.
She would get him back, though, realizing she could also fluster him.
She sat more comfortably during the massages, pressing herself down on his thighs while keeping a firm grip on his hip with one hand. Then, she’d lean over his back to softly ask if he was alright, if it felt good.
“Mel,” he rasped when she said that, actively having to stop his hips from rolling into the mattress below him. “I need a minute,” he breathed, crossing the room in two quick strides, heading for the bathroom. Mel feigned innocence.
They began to hang outside of work, too. Mel would stroll with Frank and his dog in the park, sometimes joined by Becca. Occasionally they cooked dinner together, or watched a movie. Mel helped fill in Frank’s bare house, so it won’t look like a Frat house, she said. It’s not a Frat—wait have you been to a Frat house?
When they were outside of the hospital, they weren’t as concerned with flustering one another. They were genuinely getting to know each other better, understanding how they liked to decompress and spend their days off. The tension was still there, humming between them as they passed each other in the kitchen, or lounged on the couch.
But at work, it felt much more like a game, a game they both wanted to win, but weren’t quite sure if they were done playing yet.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Small talk, big love, act like I don’t care what you did.
Mel understood and empathized with Frank about his disease; she knew he was sick, and that he was climbing himself out of the hole he dug, inch by inch. She knew he was still climbing everyday, that it was a constant effort for him.
And yet, she’s surprised at the flare of anger in her chest after Santos says, But doesn’t it bother you that he was high during your first shift with him?
No, Mel stiffly told Santos, unsure if she was trying to convince Trinity or herself.
Because Santos had hit a sore spot. Mel was, and still is, upset that Langdon was high that day.
Santos registers Mel’s hurt face and sighs frustratedly, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Look, I didn’t mean to upset you. I just worry that he’s taking advantage of you, Mel. You are probably the best thing going for him at this point.”
Despite Santos’s efforts to not upset Mel, her heart sinks. “Do you think he only spends time with me because I’m nice to him?” Mel whispers.
Santos doesn’t know what to say.
“Trinity?”
"I don’t know, King. You know him better than I do,” she says before walking away hurriedly.
Mel recalls her first shift with Langdon.
She remembers the rush of excitement, her eagerness to learn. She was even happier—albeit surprised—that she connected with Langdon so quickly. She looked forward to having someone in her corner at work, someone who could understand how her brain worked. Someone she could genuinely learn from, and could trust.
And then he didn’t say goodbye. Twice.
She didn’t know that when he left, she wouldn’t see him again for a long time.
And then, when she found out he was high and stealing from patients, it really stung.
She questioned if every interaction they had that day was genuine. Did we connect that day? Did he only like me because I was a nice person and he was struggling? Did he really think her sensitivity was a strength?
These unanswered questions gnawed at Mel, leaving her utterly confused and overwhelmed. She was foolish, she finally determined, to attach herself so quickly to one person.
Nobody would ever like her again, she worried. The best things she heard about herself—they came from someone at the lowest point of their life.
So when she found out he was in rehabilitative treatment, she urged herself not to visit. She didn’t know where she stood with him, if she even had a place in his life at all. They had one shift together. And it wasn’t even a whole shift.
Mel thought the best way to deal with the aftermath of Langdon was to just scrub that day from her mind, or at least their interactions. She tried to stop feeling guilty, too, for not visiting.
Best not to think of him at all.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
I’m an Aston Martin, that you steered straight into a ditch.
That was Mel’s plan—to wipe him from her mind—but of course all that went to shit when he came back.
She forgot why she was upset and confused, why she never visited.
He got her back, so easily, as if nothing happened.
That was their problem—they never acknowledged that something did happen during those final hours of that fucked shift and during those tortorous weeks afterwards.
But once Santos opened the floodgates, unintentionally—Mel hopes—, she found it hard to tamp down those feelings again.
But doesn’t it bother you that he was high during your first shift with him?
I just worry that he’s taking advantage of you.
Trinity’s voice would invade her brain while she was thinking of something else completely, echoing even louder whenever she looked at Frank, demanding an answer. It overloaded her emotions, often leaving her plain mad, And Mel was inherently not an angry person.
But she was mad at Santos, mad at Frank, mad at herself, most of all. Why did she fall so fast? Why was she so drawn to him? Why did she want him so badly? She hadn’t wanted anybody in her life, other than Becca, for years.
Mel couldn’t turn off her desire for Langdon once it had been switched on, but she could still be angry. Frustrated, in more ways than one.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
I can take the upper hand and touch your body, flip the script and leave you like a dumb house party.
Mel didn’t mean to pull away from Langdon.
She didn’t want to hurt him—she was a nice person, she told herself—but once she began questioning the sincerity of relationship with Langdon, she found it was hard to be around him. Even worse, she realized it was very difficult to extract him from her life. When did he become so integral to her routines?
Is Frank coming over? Becca had asked the other night, reminding Mel they always grabbed pizza together on Friday. When did that even start? Mel wondered, before gently telling Becca he couldn’t make it over. Which wasn’t true—he could make it over—but she made up an excuse so he stayed home, because Mel still didn’t know what to make of Santos’ comment. She was overwhelmed, and the last thing she wanted after a long and hard shift was to be a ball of anxiety around Frank.
At work, she still touched, and let herself be touched, by Langdon, but then she’d hear him talk to Abby and remember hey, he actually just got divorced! and would retreat into the panic room of her brain.
During a particular hard shift, she’d let him back in—not having the willpower to keep her walls raised—and it was a temporary fix.
She’d shoot him doe-eyed looks, and pliantly respond to Langdon’s own firm hands during inconvenient times. Well, flirting in the ER is never really convenient, but asking Langdon to guide his hand over hers during a thoracotomy is borderline irresponsible.
Then she would turn it off for a few days, upset at herself for still wanting him. Trying to stop. Mad again because she still wanted him. And she would cave, touch him again, let herself be touched, and the cycle would start again.
Frank eventually became upset, too. When Mel first pulled away, he thought he had crossed a line with Mel. Perhaps she was worried about something else entirely, but he trusted that she would tell him; she opened up to him frequently about her feelings. So he stewed on it for a couple of days, waiting for her to say something, anything. But then she was touching him again, resuming their little game—if you could call it that—tenfold. More bold, more fiery. She actually yanked his hair, once, when he tried to get up from the massage too early, because he was already very hard and losing control, but she wouldn’t let up. It felt like fucking heaven, so he ignored the voice in his head that warned him something was wrong, because her hands were on him again and that blurred the days without her.
And there definitely was something wrong—she pulled away, came back. Away, back again.
Frank tried to give her space and to not take it personally, which he failed at, pathetically. His mind went back to his shitty rehab headspace, wondering how and when he started to fuck everything up.
That last shift he worked was imprinted into his brain, whether he liked it or not. For all the fucking shittiness of that day, there were bright spots, and they were all Mel. Her beaming up at him as if he was some fucking role model, laughing at his stupid jokes, following him to whatever case he dragged her into, teaching him how to be patient.
After he became sober, he realized how much of a fucking jerk he was that day. But when he talked with his therapist, she pointed out that he seemed to have acted nice towards Mel, like a proper mentor. Huh, he thought.
Why do you think that is, Frank? She’d ask, and he didn’t have a real answer. Not one he wanted to admit to, anyways.
Uh, because Santos was a giant dickhead in comparison to Mel? And I didn’t bond with the rat kid, or the Shamsi protégé. He didn’t say that Whitaker and Javadi reminded him of skittish raccoons. Whitaker was practically a walking biohazard, with the amount of fluids spilled on him in one shift. He didn’t necessarily want that near him. Or a fainting med student.
I think you were more willing to mentor Mel because she brought out something positive in you, Frank.
Frank knew that. Mel steadied him; she was talented, patient, caring, and level-headed. Whitaker made him jumpy and on edge. He really didn’t have the patience to be slow with Javadi, which she deserved, but he couldn’t give it. Santos was an obvious fuck no.
Do you see some of yourself in Santos? His therapist had asked one. Yeah, fuck no. He left his session 30 minutes early.
The longer he worked on his sobriety and mental state, the more he realized that he hoped to have a fresh start with Mel. She brought out a softness in him that was usually reserved for his kids, but he wanted to be a better doctor. It’s been a long time since someone not only challenged his approach in medicine, but motivated him to change his attitude.
He wishes he could have just left it at that—wanting to be her friend and a better doctor—but he still has the flaws of a terrible man. He knew when she started appearing in his dreams he was fucked. For all of his effort to repress dirty thoughts about her when he was conscious, his brain betrayed him the minute he was unconscious.
He wanted her then, and he wants her now, Lord knows how bad. He has to sneak off to the bathroom so often, splashing cold water on his face and forcing, pleading, for his blood to stop rushing south. He’s more horny now than he ever was at sixteen, desperately jerking off in the shower, in his bed, imagining Mel’s pretty thighs on his lap, under his body. On his kitchen counter. Fuck.
But the cycle continues, off and on. He doesn’t know how it started, he doesn’t know how to stop it.
And fuck if he doesn’t still want her, more than ever.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
I hear the whispers in your eyes, I’ll make you wanna think twice.
It was an awful shift. There was a family of 5 in a car crash in which only the mother had survived, and she was in a coma. And later Garcia had to intervene on a case after Langdon’s maneuver wasn’t working fast enough. At the same time, Mel couldn’t get back a 72-year old woman who coded.
They were defeated. They could see it in each other’s eyes, even from across the room.
They met up at the lockers, exhausted.
“I can’t-I don’t,” Mel began, clearly frustrated.
Langdon puts a gentle hand on her shoulder. It felt cold on Mel’s skin.
“Why don’t we… cool down” Langdon gestured between themselves, “from this.”
She nods in agreement. All the anger, the heat, the longing—they set it all aside.
They depolarize their lives from each other, forcing limbs and thoughts to remain to themselves.
They’re not sure who’s going to crack first—not sure if this is going to become another game.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
And I’ll tell you one thing, honey, I can tell when somebody still wants me, come clean.
“Can I just ask, what the fuck happened between you two anyways?” Santos blurts, her filter—that she barely had a grip on in the first place—essentially gone after three shots and two drinks.
So neither of them cracked for a month. Langdon stopped pulling her into cases, Mel didn’t consult him with questions. No massages, no cuddles in the break room, no more sandwiches or shared air pods.
Both of them were miserable, to be sure, in foul moods before, during, and after shifts. Neither knew how to bridge the chasm of distance. The first step forward felt scarier than Mel’s first crike in the ED. And she still yearned for him—quietly, achingly, brokenly—all the time. She searched her own body in the mirror, hoping to see any traces of him left. Searched for the brightness in her eyes, the scarlet flush of her cheeks. But he left no marks.
Well, there was always the skirt, she thought. She could wear the skirt.
Mel squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “I really don’t want to talk about it.”
Santos nods. “Okay, I respect that.” Mel suspects she’s not done speaking.
“But like, can't you see he’s practically drooling like a dog looking at you in that skirt? I mean, I think it’s pathetic, but he definitely wants to devour you.”
Samira and Victoria fail to stifle their laughs, nodding their heads in agreement.
Mel smiles to herself. Yes, she knows he’s looking. She wanted him to.
He’s at the bar, laughing with Robby and Whitaker, sipping his non-alcoholic cider. She wants him to have a nice time; it’s heartwarming to see him and Robby laugh so openly again. Whitaker is a nice buffer, she thinks, easing the boys into a lighthearted mood.
They lock eyes, briefly, and Mel feels the familiar zip up her spine. She notices his grip tightens on his glass significantly. They both seem to have the sense to look away at the same time.
She wants to hear him say it—that he wants her back. Wants him begging for her to touch him again, and his own hands, strong and confident, on her skin. Wants them both on their knees, grabbing every inch they can get a hold on, kissing, biting, squeezing, bruising.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
I can feel it coming, humming in the way you move.
Everyone’s dancing. It’s the same lazy, sticky heat that Mel remembers sharing with Langdon in her bedroom. Mel’s body is loose from the one (1) alcoholic drink, swaying with the low thrum of the bass.
Santos is shaking her ass up against a deeply uncomfortable Whitaker, but then she somehow gets him to also shake his butt—or at least that’s what it looks like he’s trying to do.
Samira somehow gets an employee to bring out a light up Happy Birthday sign for Javadi, and everyone cheers. Mel watches Mateo hug her and whisper something in her ear. She can’t hear the giggle coming from Javadi because of the music, but she’s heard it enough that she feels like she can.
And Langdon is staring. He’s leaning against the bar, legs crossed, cigarette dangling from his lips. Eyes glued to Mel, to her ass moving in that damn lilac skirt, her loose hair curling around her neck and forehead, eyes sparkling from everyone else’s happiness.
Robby and Collins are seemingly having a heart to heart next to him, but he doesn’t seem phased.
She finally turns and holds his gaze, and her stomach swoops, as if she already knows what’s coming next. Mel wonders if she can delay it, but her feet are already moving to meet him as he pushes off the bar and strides to her.
She’s free from the throng of the crowd. He puts out his cigarette.
“Mel,” he breathes, hands shooting up to touch her as soon as he’s near, but he retracts them quickly.
Mel’s chest is still rising quickly from the buzz of the dance floor. “Hi,” she says quietly, suddenly wanting to be far, far, away from here. Turns out, when she’s not dancing, she doesn’t really like that she can barely hear Frank speaking, let alone her own thoughts. Her skin is sticky, and her hair is warm on her neck. She blinks rapidly, hands working their knots.
Frank leans into her ear so she can hear him better “Do you want to go somewhere quiet?”
“Yes,” Mel responds immediately, heat already pooling in her stomach, his voice rough in her ear.
Push the reset button, we’re becoming something new.
She follows him down the stairs, just like how she jogged after him that first shift, during the STEMI.
He leads them to a much quieter corner on the first floor.
“I saw you dancing,” he says, because neither of them know where to begin.
“I saw you looking,” she replies.
“What have you—How have you been?” He really wants to ask if she still thinks about him, if he’s been fine without her.
“I’m okay,” she says neutrally. “How about you?” It suddenly occurs to Mel that Frank may have moved on during their break. Was it a break? Whatever. She really really hopes he didn’t.
Say you got somebody, I’ll say “I got someone too.”
He exhales roughly, raking his hair in his hands. “Look Mel, I don’t know what to say, other than this past month was hell, and I don’t know how it even got to this point.”
She looks down at her hands wringing themselves over and over again, but feels a tiny fraction of relief coursing through her. “I didn’t like it either.”
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry, for whatever I did. I know I hurt you somehow, because I’m an asshole like that, but I want to fix it. Please.”
“You’re not an asshole,” Mel contradicts. “And I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on you.”
“So you were angry?”
“Maybe upset is a better word.”
He nods, swallowing painfully. Fuck, he hates that he made her feel this way. “Can I ask why?”
“Yes, I want, um, I want to tell you. Everything. But it’s Victoria’s birthday, and I feel like we should—”
“Yeah, we should probably head back in there.”
“Oh, I was going to say we should say goodbye. Before we leave. If you want to leave, I mean.”
“Yes, yeah,” he nods eagerly. Jesus. He’s been waiting all night to leave with her. Wait, she does want to leave together, right?
“To be clear, we’re leaving together?”
Her lips twitch into a smile. “Yes. I’m not leaving with anyone else.”
Even if it’s handcuffed, I'm leaving here with you.
They say their goodbyes, Victoria drunkenly thanking them for coming, Santos complaining that Mel is ditching her. Everyone is politely ignoring the massive elephant in the room, that Mel and Langdon are leaving together. Well, they hear Santos make a retching sound, which makes Langdon roll his eyes, and Whitaker elbows her to knock it off.
Mel is still giving her cute little waves goodbye as they turn to leave. Frank is fighting the urge to scoop her up in his arms and drag her to his car.
Frank only lives 5 minutes away from Mario’s, but the drive home feels especially long. He white knuckles the steering wheel when Mel crosses a leg over the other, urging his hand to not grip the smooth expanse of skin. Mel hopes Langdon doesn’t know she's pressing her thighs together to ease the budding pressure in her core.
Once they’re through the doorway to his house, the tension between them curls tightly around their bodies, begging them to forgoe all the talking.
Mel steps into him anyway, and he instantly cradles the back of her head, hands tangled in her honey hair.
"Mel," he sighs, eyes shutting, nose inhaling her dizzying vanilla scent.
“You say my name a lot,” Mel whispers, head tilted up towards him. When he’s towering over her like this, she remembers just how big he is. How he can envelop his body over hers to make her feel safe. To set her skin on fire.
He shudders when he sees her looking up at him with her doe eyes, like a warm shot of espresso.
“I’m trying very hard to be a good man, Mel.” He says, slowly. “I want to get this right with you. Please, let me fix it.”
“You didn’t say goodbye to me.” Mel blurts. “My first day.” His last day. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again. I, um, didn’t even know if you even meant what you said, or if we even connected—”
“I meant it.” He said firmly. “I meant every fucking word, Mel. I know I was high, and I hate myself for that,” he grimaces, “but what we had that day—it was real. You had to have known that,” he pleads.
“How would I have known that?”
“I would’ve told you if you asked, I don’t know.” He sighs. “I was hoping you would have visited.”
Mel steps away, shaking her head. “That’s not fair. I didn’t even know what happened, if you cared, if you remembered me—”
“If I remembered you? Jesus, how could I forget you, Mel? Just—sorry.” He paces the room, trying to slow his brain and find the words. “I left you in a fucking horrible way. I know that. I just thought you’d come. I thought you understood me that day.”
“And I thought you understood me,” Mel countered.
“I did,” he swears. “I do."
“Well you still could’ve said goodbye.” Mel states, desperately trying to keep her voice even.
“The goodbye, why is that so important?” Frank says, trying to understand her. “Look, Robby and I had gotten into it pretty bad at the end of the night, and I was fucking terrified about losing my medical license, my family, I didn’t even think of—we’re going round and round with this.” He sighs, frustrated.
Mel shoves her palms into her eyes, forcing the tears not to fall. “It’s not about the goodbye.”
Frank gives her time to find her words, watching her helplessly as she curls her knuckles and squeezes her eyes shut. He wants to smooth the wrinkle out of her forehead, quiet the buzzing in her brain. “I’m mad at myself, because I connected with you so quickly, which doesn’t really happen to me, ever. And then you just left, and I had to find out what happened from everyone else—”
“Mel, I didn’t exactly want to broadcast that I was a drug addict—”
“And I was so confused, and sad, because I didn’t know what really happened, or if-if I should have visited,” Mel stops, taking a quick breath. “And the only way I could move forward was to just forget about you. And I was fine," she swipes a few tears away, “until you showed back up again, and I became attached to you like a fool. And I wonder, sometimes, if you only like me because I’m a bright spot during a dark time, and,” she swallows, “I’m scared you’re going to leave again without saying goodbye,” she finishes in a whisper.
Langdon’s own eyes are damp, a lump of sad apologies forming in his throat. “The truth is, I didn’t know how to say goodbye,” he says, tugging his hair. “I knew I couldn’t stand in front of you, knowing I wasn't coming back for a long time. Knowing I had failed you as a mentor, on day fucking one. I didn’t want you to see me like that,” he exhales. “And then, when I was alone, detoxing, seeing everything so fucking clearly for the first time in a while, I did want to see you. Funny how sobriety works like that. I wanted to get to know you, sober, taking every detail in. What made you smile like a twitching bunny. What made you frown. What you thought of the damn weather. Anything. Everything. And I suppose,” he walked towards her again, “I also wanted to erase the first day we had together. I wanted a clean slate with you, and I was an idiot for thinking I could just start over.”
Mel’s still processing his words, hard eyes softening.
“I actually told myself I should leave you alone, when I came back. I didn’t want to ruin your reputation with my fuck-ups,” Frank chuckled dryly. “That plan went out the door the second I saw that damn braid. So, really, I think I’m the pathetic one. I don’t hang around you because you’re nice to me, but because I don’t like the version I am without you, Mel. Fuck, this month was shit without you.”
“It was,” Mel agrees with a sniff. “For the record, I’m glad you didn’t leave me alone when you came back.”
“I’m selfish, what can I say? Never have been great at impulse control. Clearly.”
“Well, I’m very picky.” Mel says. “And I know I want you.”
They’re close together again, chests heaving.
Bygones will be bygone eras fading into gray.
“I want you, too. All of you. All the fucking time,” Frank says desperately, sinking to his knees in front of her. “Please, Mel. If you’ll forgive me, if you’ll have me, I’ll try my damndest to never hurt you again. I can't promise I won’t, but I’ll never stop trying to make it work.”
Mel nods rapidly, lowering herself on her knees as well. The heat immediately flares between them, drawing their bodies together. “Yes, please.”
There’s a pause, Frank arching his brow as if to ask Are we really about to do this?
Mel doesn’t want to speak anymore. She dives in to kiss him.
Frank is immediately in action. “Shit, Mel," he moans, placing his hands on her ass, hot and heavy, tugging her into his lap. “I’ve wanted you for so long, fuck," he shudders.
Mel moans softly back, tangling her hands in his hair the way she’s always wanted to, rolling her hips downwards because she really can’t wait any longer.
“Eager?” he teases, but Mel can feel his erection straining against his jeans. She rolls her hips over the bulge in his pants to emphasize her point.
He tosses his head back and squeezes her hips roughly. “Okay, okay,” he says raggedly, “point taken.”
We broke all the pieces but still want to play the game.
He stands up abruptly, taking Mel with him. She instinctively wraps her thighs around him, and Frank grips her ass to support her. “This fucking skirt,” he mutters, nipping her neck, behind her ears, down her chest. He can feel the heat of her through his t-shirt. Christ. “You’re killing me.”
Mel just blushes, burying her crimson cheeks into his neck as he walks them backwards.
When his legs hit the bed, he spins them around, gently laying her down on his white duvet. Mel’s hair spreads out like a halo. Her face is glowing, like a damn angel. It pains him to look at her.
“Are you just going to stand there looking?”
Right.
Langdon tugs her hips to the edge of the mattress, hands immediately resting on her thighs, which fall open for him instinctively.
He begins to worship her skin on his knees, kissing up her thighs to her hips, dangerously close to where Mel wants him most.
He hears her whimper on the bed, and fuck does it do something to him. He can’t help but to hook a hand around her underwear, pulling it to the side. She’s wearing lilac lace underwear. He’s going to lose his mind.
Mel jolts as his fingers ghost her hips and inner thighs, so close to where she is throbbing. “Frank, please," she whispers, hips jumping up to seek his touch.
“I have you baby,” he soothes, thrusting a finger inside of her. Mel’s hands fly to the sheets, toes curling. Mel’s seen his hands, many times. She knows they’re big. She knows they’re dexterous. Still, she can’t help but gasp when she feels his finger, pleasantly shocked by how far he reaches inside of her, how he curls them in and out, keeping a dizzying pressure on her clit. She’s already gasping, legs trembling for more.
“Fuck, you’re soaked.” He quickly adds a second finger, working her open, palming his own dick briefly because he’s never felt this horny in his life.
“F-frank,” she moans brokenly, “please."
“What do you want, sweetheart?” He’d do anything for her. He’s so fucked. “More?”
“Yes,” she moans.
Frank decides to remove the lace underwear entirely, as sad as he is to see them go. Before he can dive back in, Mel sits up.
“I want you.”
“I want you too, Mel. I’m going to take care of you,” he assures.
“No, I mean I want you here," she sits back in the bed, motioning him to join her. He doesn’t hesitate to climb in with her.
“And I want this off,” she tugs at his shirt.
He chuckles, pulling it off swiftly in one motion. “Anything else?”
“I just wanted to be able to touch you,” she whispers.
Frank positions himself over her body, letting Mel access his chest. She immediately drapes her arms around him, and Frank sucks in a sharp breath. She drags them down his back, exploring his arms, feeling his chest.
He reaches down in between their bodies, shoving his fingers back into her. Mel cries out, hooking a leg around his back as she arches off the bed.
“Feel good?” he says lowly in her ear, pumping his fingers deep inside her.
Mel can’t find any words, just gasping and moaning over and over again, digging her fingers into his back.
“Can I take this off?” he says, pulling at her shirt. She nods desperately.
And, God help Frank, she’s wearing a matching lingerie set. Her breasts are pushed up in a lilac bra, with a dainty trim of lace accentuating her cleavage.
“You’re ruining me, Mel,” he groans, hand cupping a breast over her bra while the other continues to work inside her. “I’m never going to be able to get this out of my head,” he mumbles, before dropping his head to suck on her cleavage.
“Off,” she pants, tugging at the bra. He’s sad to see that go, too, but just as desperate to have her tits in his mouth.
He’s nipping at her chest, groaning and praising her, while his fingers curl into that spot right there fuck, and she feels the familiar tightening inside of her.
“Oh my god, I can’t–Frank,” she whimpers, screwing her eyes shut while her hips lift off the bed to press deeper against his fingers. He can see a few tears escape her eyes as she writhes in overwhelming pleasure.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he murmurs, pulling their bodies chest to chest. He litters her body with hickeys while his arm snakes around her waist, steadying her hips against his. “Fuck, so good for me, baby. So fucking perfect.”
With the pressure of his body on hers, Mel keels over the edge, squeezing her thighs impossibly tight around his hips. “That’s it baby, come for me sweetheart,” he groans roughly, feeling his dick strain against his pants painfully.
After working her through her orgasm, Frank gingerly removes his hand from inside her, pushing up on his elbows to give her some air.
Mel immediately drags him back down. “I want more,” she says breathlessly, hips grinding against his hips.
And who was Frank to deny her?
Her hands yank at the band of his jeans, and he shucks them off as best as he can while kissing her greedily.
“Mel,” he grunts when her hands fly to his dick, “I don’t think I’m going to be able to hold out very long,” he warns. He can already feel the precome through his boxers. He would be embarrassed if it was anybody else, but Frank had a few months to accept the fact that Mel had him hooked around his finger in the most dangerous way. Judging by how hard he would come at night, just imagining her touching him, he knew he was screwed from the start.
“I don’t care,” Mel says, his words buzzing pleasantly in her brain, giving her the confidence to flip their bodies so she’s seated on his lap, legs bracing his hips.
Definitely screwed.
Mel pulls down his boxers instantly, and Langdon hisses as his dick springs up. Mel’s eyes widen ever so slightly, taking in the sheer size of his cock. Much like how her feet gravitate towards Frank without realizing it, her hips lift to align his dick with her entrance.
“Wait, wait,” he stills her with his hands, catching his breath. “Are you sure? And do you want a condom?”
Mel blinks impatiently back at him. “Yes, I'm sure. No, I don't like the texture of a condom,” she asserts. “Is that okay?”
“You tell me.” He groans, nudging his dick over her folds, and they’re both gasping. “I’d say I’m pretty fucking sure,” he says, voice hoarse.
“Right, I’m going down now,” Mel says, lifting her hips and sinking torturously slow down his cock.
His hands squeeze her hips roughly as he throws his head back, eyes screwed shut. “Fuck, fuck.”
Mel moans in agreement, rocking herself gently until he’s fully inside her. She braces her hands on his chest, gasping while adjusting to his size inside of her. “You’re big,” she says, stating the obvious.
“Are you okay?” He asks tightly. “If it hurts—”
“It doesn’t.” She lifts her hips slightly and drops them, testing how it feels. “Feels really good,” she confesses breathily, rising higher and dropping down again.
Frank’s hips jerk up involuntarily, "Shit, fuck,” he strains. “You feel amazing, Mel, oh fuck,” he’s trembling, toes curling in pleasure. Praises spill from his lips uncontrollably— so good, so perfect, all mine —encouraging Mel to rock her hips more fervently, picking up the pace. His hands are bruising her hips with his grip, but she likes the sensation, the firmness of his hold.
They quickly find a pace, meshing together as if it was natural as breathing air. "Frank," she moans loudly, when his hips meet hers on a particular deep stroke. Her legs are trembling again, and she finds it increasingly difficult to stay up right. Mel can feel the tears pool again in her eyes, basking in the sensation of being pleasantly full.
“I’m here, sweetheart.” He guides her chest down to his, holding one arm firmly around her frame, while the other hand grabs her ass. She shudders at the pressure of their bodies together, biting his shoulder as she continues to ride him.
Mel, Mel, Mel, he chants, light-headed with pleasure, fervently trying to delay his orgasm for dear life. “You’re the only one I want, the only one I think about,” he pants. “Only you. Always you, Mel.”
Before he can move a hand down to apply pressure to Mel’s clit, she cries out and clenches around him hard, begging him to come inside her. “ "Please, Frank,” tears spilling on his shoulder. “I need, I want oh—” she keens, as he slams into her earnestly, his own hips stuttering.
“Oh, Mel," he swears, moaning long and hard as his orgasm hits him like a truck, eyes rolling in the back of his head as Mel comes undone with him. They’re both groaning together, clinging to each other’s bodies as they grind out the waves of pleasure together.
Frank’s chest draws in air desperately as he comes back to himself. “Genuinely thought I lost consciousness for a second,” he manages to gasp out with a chuckle.
Mel is also breathing hard, collapsing on top of his body. “Good thing I’m a doctor,” she jokes, breathless. Despite her joke, he hears her sniff.
“Are you alright?” He asks, instantly alert and worried, hands cradling her head instinctively.
“Oh, yes, I’m fine,” she assures. “This happens. The crying, I mean. I tend to get emotional.”
Frank squeezes her tighter, stroking her hair. My sensitive girl. “It felt good, though?” he asks.
She laughs again. “I’ve never—no one’s ever, um, made me climax, like that. Ever.”
“Me either,” Frank agrees, laughing with her. “And everybody at the Pitt thinks you’re so innocent,” he shakes his head in disbelief, and her cheeks flush impossibly redder. “I saw straight through it.”
“I think Santos does, too.”
“I’d rather not hear her name minutes after that earth-shattering orgasm,” he quips. And then, softer, “do you want me to clean us up, or do you want to stay like this for a while?” He wants to make sure she comes down in the right headspace, and give her proper, tender aftercare.
“Could we shower, and then come back to bed?” she asks hesitatingly. “I don’t think I can relax like this.”
“Of course.” He kisses the top of her head.
“Thank you,” Mel whispers. “For understanding me. Not just for the sex. But thank you for the sex, too.”
“Of course, Mel,” he chuckles. “I’d do just about anything for you, you know.”
She smiles softly.
You’ll find that you were never not mine.
“I know.”
Fin.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦