Chapter Text
If there was anyone who knew how fate could be funnily cruel, it was Frank Langdon.
His entire life, he'd always tried his hardest to be perfect. The best student, the best son, the best doctor, a perfect husband with a perfect family. Even regarding his appearance, once upon a time not being the best looking guy, destiny had flicked its wrist somehow and he'd grown into his looks by senior year of high school and turned out exactly like who he'd always sought out to be.
It had taken him decades to do it all, have it all. But he'd done it: he'd started with straight A's in school, worked his way up the chain in college and then kept doing the same when he joined PTMC's crew as an intern until he was a resident, the favorite resident. Not everyone's, but Robby's, at least.
The only times he'd ever taken hurriedly-warned days off were when his children were born. The next day he was off to work again, not wanting to do anything that might disturb his score with the attendings. He'd always been like that, eager to turn himself inside out so people would like him.
His parents had been so proud at all his accomplishments. He'd given them grandchildren, an amazing daughter-in-law, a doctor as a son — and a great one at that. He could still remember the joy in his mother's voice, his father's impressed look, when he'd told them he'd end up as an attending soon. And he hadn't lied, per se, it seemed at the time like it was an impending thing, something inevitable after dedicating all his years to perfection.
And he'd done everything to protect that stance, to make sure he was seen as a reliable person, a knowledgeable doctor who the crew could count on. It didn't even come only from him, but from Abby as well. The reason she'd firmly requested to give birth at Presby, not PTMC, was because of him; because she knew she could be mean when in pain — and who would fight the urge when the pain was that excruciating, really? — and didn't want to risk his upcoming career and spot as an attending. She, too, was perfect.
They'd met in his first year of med school, at a party he'd been dragged to by none other than Yolanda, because they still had energy to go out back then. She'd gone there to have fun with some of her older friends and didn't want him to feel left out. It was a feeling that followed him there anyway, but at least she'd not been doing it intentionally.
Abby had caught him at a corner, as he'd been trying to make himself invisible, and made him feel seen, normal, for the first time. And when her hand traveled up his arm, cupped his neck, brought his face closer to hers, who was he to deny her — or himself — of something nice and easy?
Frank had been so good until then. Always having a nagging feeling that there was something missing to finally make the puzzle click entirely into place, yeah, but the moment they first kissed he'd been sure that was her.
And for a while, it felt like he'd reached it.
That is, until it all came abruptly crashing down.
Trying so hard did have its disadvantages, after all. His parents had been moving from his childhood home, something about feeling haunted by all the space that was no longer filled by children running and teenagers arguing. He had been hurt by the move, hadn't understood it — how could they leave a whole past behind like that? Their whole lives were inside that house, how could they drop it so suddenly? —, but the moment his father asked for his help with it, he'd known he was bound to be involved. He couldn't just say no; perfect sons don't say that to their parents.
They also don't let their fathers carry heavy furniture out of the old place and into the new one. They are stubborn about it when they're assured it won't do damage, and even more as they convince said father that movers wouldn't be careful with such precious things as his childhood.
And what was the solution to that dilemma? Oh! Right.
Their son was such a strong man nowadays. And he very much didn't mind doing his best to help his parents. He was the flawless son, wasn't he?
Then he was moving their solid-wood wardrobe out of the truck when he felt a snap in his lower back. It'd shaken up his balance, making him nearly smash it on the ground by accident. His parents had come running to his aid, but he'd masked the pain the best he could and the words "I'm fine, don't worry" hadn't even sound unsteady as they came out of his mouth. And he'd insisted to keep up his work with the move, hissing under his breath as his pain worsened with every piece he lifted.
When the next day came, it wasn't aggravated, but it didn't go away. Not even the day after that, or the one after. Two weeks into that situation, it had been unbearable.
He'd started to snap at his students, his fellow workers, even Robby once. Not because he wanted to, but because the non-stop movement of the ED combined with the shocks he always felt now made him feel heavy, overwhelmed. He'd learned that he, like Abby, could be cruel when in pain as well. He needed it to stop; the anger, the pain, the blurred vision towards life.
On a random Tuesday, Andrew O'Neill brought him a way to fix that. Or, well, maybe it was better to say that circumstances brought the guy to the ER, where he stayed for days on end regularly taking Ativan to help with the continuum seizures he'd been having, and tragically passed away half a week in. Fate had intervened.
There wasn't any scandal about it, people died every day at the ER and as sad and disturbing as it was, they were doctors; it was something they had to learn to deal with. The others had only ended up aware of his death a few hours later, when the stretcher bearers took away to the morgue.
By then, the small container of medicine had already been taken and just as mysteriously, appeared inside the left pocket on Frank's scrub pants.
It wasn't meant to be the permanent fix, stealing meds from patients. But it was the quickest route until he could find something else that would help, and it was just so easy. They got people needing them all the time, what harm could it do to prescribe a number of pills slightly higher than the patient needed? And then, when an attending inevitably noticed how generous he was being with the benzos, would it make that much of a difference If he stole one or two bottles from the meds' cabinet?
(Yes. But he'd always been good at pretending when he needed the acting like a lifeline).
The way they eased the pressure on his back might've been what got him started on them, but how they made him feel was what got him hooked. It wasn't like they solely brought back the person he was before the injury. No, it wasn't himself he saw in the mirror, but a bettered version, someone he'd always wanted to be but had never been able to become.
Frank was suddenly faster, more focused, had quicker wit. His patient satisfaction score was higher than ever, his colleagues seemed astonished with his rapid progress. It was all thanks to those beautiful orange little bottles.
Maybe he'd been wrong before and Abby wasn't the key to complete the puzzle that was his life. The medicine was, of course it was. He should've known. All the roads lead to the hospital.
And the guilt he felt could be swallowed with the water and the white pills he'd gotten used to take. To make up for it, he'd started to work more hours than usual. Abby wasn't the happiest with that decision, but he was sure a new bag, a new couch, a new dog could resolve that in no time. It wasn't like he was abandoning his family, his perfect family, anyway.
And If it ended up with him having more access to the meds he needed, then maybe it was just the universe's way to tell him he was their favorite too.
He wasn't an addict, he wasn't. Not regarding the pills. That would mean he was addicted to the relief of the pain, and maybe he wasn't praying for that to stop working because it did help, but that also wasn't the main reason he took them anymore. If he was addicted to anything, it was to the Frank Langdon he could be on their effect. Yet that itself couldn't be a form of addiction, so he was sure he was safe.
It was only a detail that he felt his thoughts and emotions derailing when he was off them. It was easily fixable, he just had to get more. When he felt like he was losing it, the world melting around him, he popped one and done, the tilt on its axis corrected itself.
On September 5th, 2025, Frank felt something was shifting from the moment he woke up. He didn't feel right from the get-go, the veins in his arms electric in a hurtful way and nausea flooding his nervous system. Looking to the side, he found Abby's side of the bed empty. That meant the kids were probably already up, and he could make his way to the Pitt earlier than usual.
He hadn't been able to take a pill in over three days since the past week had been pretty busy as he prepared to welcome the newbies with Robby. The man knew he was more than capable of teaching the younger residents, he'd been doing it already, but it felt different this time: less like a preparation designed for a resident and more like one for a future attending.
Frank could feel the taste of the gold medal on his tongue. It felt so near.
He just felt a bit off, he needed only one.
So naturally, he came down the stairs startling fast, bag on his shoulder. He found his children sat at the kitchen table, his wife making them French toast with baked tomatoes on it, or natural yogurt parfaits, or some other healthy breakfast recipe she was trying out this time. At the sound of his steps nearing the room, Abby turned and looked at him.
"Good morning, sleepyhead." She smiled. "You hungry?"
He was, just not for food.
"Good morning, babe. No, what I am is late." Frank moved around the table to greet Tanner with a tight side hug, careful not to disturb what seemed to be hundreds of crayons and differently colored papers that were laid in front of his son. "Morning, champ. How you feelin'?"
"I'm drawing, Daddy! Look!" He made haste to show his father the paper he'd been focused on before the older Langdon arrived. It was three stick figures, two tall ones and the other half their height, and a gigantic box at their side with an even smaller figure there. There wasn't much to guess from, but it was fair to say he understood what it was.
"Is that us?" Tanner nodded excitedly. "I love it bud, it's very pretty."
"Thank you, Daddy!"
Frank gave him a kiss on the top of his head and moved to Penny's little chair.
"Good morning, Pen." He said, scrunching his nose and then nuzzling the side of her face furiously. The little girl snickered and he pressed a kiss to her cheek as she responded him with her high pitched "Hi, dada".
"You sure you can't stay a little and eat with us? Or just, keep us company?" Abby had abandoned the food she was messing with, approaching him with a pout. It was exaggerated, because she thought he'd done anything to keep her from doing that face.
Normally, he would. Today, that wasn't an option.
"Sorry, baby, I really can't. The new doctors are arriving today and I need to be there earlier for presentations and all." He did, actually, but he could go out a little later and still get there in time for them. What he wouldn't have time for, though, was to get a little something from the cabinet without anyone seeing it. And he needed that. "I need to go, now."
He pressed a peck to her cheek as he'd done to Penny, and scurried away from his perfect family, towards the Pitt.
Unfortunately for him, traffic was not on his side that day. It was the time of the year that PittFest took place, so of course there were a bunch of people on the road early.
Shit. He hadn't really thought about that before leaving, otherwise he would've come up with a different route to the hospital. Now he hadn't enjoyed the morning with his family and he still wouldn't be able to get the supply he was aching — not aching! in need of, he thought — for.
Making his way towards the entrance as he arrived right on time, his gaze caught on Robby talking to someone and shortly made its way towards that person. A woman, much smaller than his attending. She had her back to Frank, so all he could really gather from her was her hair tied back to a thick, dark blonde braid that mesmerized him with its light swing that made it seem like she was talking animatedly about something.
As the presentations took place, Frank learned her name was Melissa King.
Everyone calls me Mel.
Mel, actually.
Not very often he thought of himself as the same as everyone else — he was aware of how much of an ass that made him, thank you very much —, but If that gave him permission to call her Mel rather than Dr. King, who was he to say no?
The man didn't know what was so special, so alluring, about Mel to him. But he did know that there was something tugging him to her. From the first case she presented to him, the one with child that had taken his dad's pot gum, he could feel a connection not surging up, but tightening, strengthening, like it was already there before. How that would be possible was another mystery to him, but it made him feel lighter and grounded at the same time.
It rang true that most of the other newbies weren't bad either.
The med students, Whitaker and Javadi, looked scared out of their lives for most of it, but that came with the job. It took time and guts — theirs and other people's too — to become familiar with all of it.
Santos, on the other hand, was too cocky for her own good. He didn't like that. Yes, he'd been in her shoes once, many years ago, but he'd earned the right to be cocky sometimes. She still hadn't, so sue him for the way her attitude rubbed him the wrong way.
Between them all though, Mel was still a breeze of fresh air. She was… more, eliciting feelings so tangled in each other that he didn't even know where to begin to sort them out. She was knowledgeable, intelligent, but not once was she arrogant about it and she came to him with genuine interest to learn from him, every time. She was curious, enthusiastic about the many mysteries of Emergency Medicine, but never over-the-top.
And she was sensitive, soft, in a way he'd never found out how to be. She listened, intently, and she looked thorough and through every probable diagnosis, seeing the person first rather than the injury, burn or damage. He found he didn't only want her to learn from him, but he wanted to be taught by her as well.
Maybe that was something that was encouraged at UMich, mandatory even - though he couldn't picture Mel not willingly signing up for classes like that. His own education at UPenn had programs that were references in the field of empathy and trust-building with patients, though Frank himself had attended only one of those courses as he'd been in need for credits.
Sure, he could also admit she was naturally pretty. It wasn't something you could miss with her, especially not him who has spent a great amount of that day orbiting around her in some capacity.
But that was neither here or there. Just because he found her eyes to be the prettiest shade of brown, just light enough he could still make out her pupil from the rest, or because he took notice of the mole under her eye and his traitorous brain made him question whether it was the only one she had, didn't mean he wanted anything real with her.
Her enthusiasm and curiosity must be contagious, that's all.
He turned out to be right about Santos. In the end, she was the one responsible for his demise.
It'd been fine, everything. Was. Fine.
He was in control of his life, of whatever this situation was, until she decided he was suspicious solely because they kept clashing the whole day. How could it be his fault that she was mavericking when she barely had any experience to back it up? That was all on her, really, and he was adjusting her to take her place and observe before taking action.
It only dawned on him that maybe yelling at her in front of a patient and bunch of doctors and nurses wasn't the right way to hold her accountable for her impulsive streak after Robby had to basically drag him out of the room and tell him so. And he agreed with him, he did.
It was just that she was getting under his skin the whole day, and he couldn't stop sweating, and usually the amount of people coming in so quickly didn't have any effect on him, but now he felt his mind fogging up with the movement, and he could really use a pill right now—
Enough.
No, he didn't. He needed Santos to mind her own business and not meddle in his.
Which, of course, she didn't do, leading to Robby confronting him about the thefts and finding evidence of them in his own locker.
That day, and the subsequently one, were the worst of his entire life. He'd gotten kicked out of the ED not once but twice, by his best friend — or someone he'd considered that way — and mentor, didn't know what would be of his career, and got home exhausted in every way possible, only to find Abby with her arms crossed, waiting for him in a poor-lit setting.
"What's going on, baby?" He asked her, frowning when she didn't respond right away. He moved closer, placing his open bag and jacket in the chiffonier next to the door.
Her pause was long, and when she finally answered him, after a long and suffering sigh, in the calm way he recognized came from her before the storm arrived, he knew he was in deep shit. Deeper shit.
"Robby called."
Frank's heart stuttered, tumbling down all the way to his stomach. He could feel bile going up to his throat, and he forced himself to clear it and take a deep breath.
"What did he say?" Was all he could mutter.
"Are you serious?" She didn't sound mad, just resigned. It killed him all the same.
"Abby…"
"Tell me he's lying." The redhead, beautiful, perfect, redhead said. For anyone else, she would be impossible to read, and it would seem like she was the picture of collected.
He knew better, heard the silent plea, not in her voice or her face, but in her stance — in the way her shoulders were curved slightly, disturbing her faultless posture. A plea he could not answer.
"Sweetie—"
"Frank." She interrupted, her tone making him instinctively hold his breath. "Please." She closed her eyes for a second, then opened them up and moved two steps closer to him in the living room. "Tell me it isn't true."
"I…" The dark-haired man didn't know what to say. He could lie, make something up as it wasn't like it would be the first time he'd done it, but what was the point of that? She knew. She wanted him to tell her, for a reason he wasn't aware of, but she knew.
Silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, between them.
Frank scrambled his brain after an excuse, or a good enough apology, or anything that would fix this. He could still fix it, he just needed to think hard enough. He was still the perfect husband, even If he couldn't say the same for the occupations of student, doctor, son, anymore, so he needed to find a way. A little time and he would figure it out, just give him a little time— Wait, where was Abby going?
And why did she have luggage with her? How had he not seen it behind their couch?
His entire body steeled. And suddenly he became all too conscious of the fact that he hadn't seen or heard the kids since he came into the house.
"Where—" He started, before she interrupted him.
"They're at my mother's." She stopped in front of him, each luggage in one of her hands. "And I'm heading there now." Looking right into his eyes, she finished. "You're obviously not invited."
Frank felt furious, aggrieved really. Fine, he fucked up, big time, but that didn't give her the right to take away Penny and Tanner from him.
"You can't do this, they're my children too." He said through gritted teeth, trying to maintain his composure even If he felt everything falling apart.
"They are, and you can join us soon. When you get your shit together again, and isn't putting them, us, at risk anymore."
Her words cut him deeper than any ever had, not even the ones he directed at himself in the mirror after a failure, a bad judgment, a shitty, impulsive decision.
"I never used around them, or you. There's nothing at the house, you can inspect it all over If you want." It was a weak defense, but it was the only card he could play. The man was sure Abby could hear the way his voice shook. He wouldn't let the tears he felt burning on the other side of his eyes fall though.
"But you still used, and we both know the effects drugs have on people can last for a long time. You were still getting high, in the Emergency Room, and coming home that way."
His vision was becoming turbid, fuzzy, and he knew he could no longer hold anything in.
"Please." It was his turn to plea. For her forgiveness, for her understanding, for her cooperation. She shook her head very lightly, once, and he knew it was a plea that, like hers, couldn't be met with a satisfying response.
Abby reached for something in his bag near them. An orange flask. The source of his ruin. She took his hand forcefully, making him take it in his vacant palm.
"I won't let you make them suffer like I am, Frank." Lifting her left hand, she then slid her wedding ring off her finger and placed it beside the container. "Find us when you've figured out how to breathe sober again."
Frank felt like the air had been punched out of his lungs entirely at that. Watching hopelessly as she walked out the front door without a single look back, he surrendered.
Was that even possible anymore? He hated that he didn't have an answer for that.
The next day, it still hurt. Everything hurt.
God, it hadn't hurt like that in such a long time. It was dizzying, disorienting. Frank didn't know how to deal with that now. Had he ever?
Well, yes. But that was before the chaos was launched into his existence, before the pills ended up fucking it all up and he could still turn to them for comfort.
That wasn't an option now, was it?
He guessed it was just his luck, that in his desperate search for approval, perfection, he managed to wreck his whole life. He was a horrible person.
Perfect student? Robby hated him now.
Perfect doctor? He didn't even know If he still had a license, and he'd been taking from his own patients for a long while.
Perfect father? He'd put the drugs before his own children, endangered them just as much and as thoroughly.
Perfect son? He was surely being disowned right now, as Abby had probably already broken the news to his parents.
Perfect husband? What a joke.
He was nothing at all.
He spent the day calling Abby and Robby over and over again.
Robby blocked him at his fourth attempt, but not before advising him to go to rehabilitation first. He truly didn't know what to make of that, so he turned to Abby instead.
She'd calmed a bit down, but not nearly enough to take back what she'd said or what she'd done. He couldn't blame her for it, but desperation had a way of clawing underneath his skin and attaching itself to every cell on his body. She gave up trying to discuss it on attempt #9 and told him If he'd called again, she'd block him as well.
So now he was here, all by himself, inside a gigantic but hallow house. He finally understood exactly how his parents felt before they decided to sell their house. A place once surrounded in life truly felt haunted in its void.
Frank was used to his mind being stocked with thoughts by now, courtesy of his ADHD, but they'd turned pointier, more bitter and cutting after everything. They were giving him a headache, to top all of the other wounds he had to deal with already, and he just…
Needed it gone. Like he had once before.
Then he remembered: the flask. He'd let it fall to the floor next to the door after his wife — ex-wife? He wasn't sure — had left.
Scurrying towards the living room, he found them sprawled on the floor. Just one or two wouldn't do, not with how hurtful the headache felt, maybe he could go for three? For warranty, of course.
He waited half an hour for the effects to appear, for the pain to go numb, but it barely did anything. The man decided to pop one more then, just in case he needed an even number for it to work, and sat on his couch and turn the TV on in a random entertainment channel.
Two more hours passed and it was weird, he felt like the pounding in his head was getting stronger, not more torpid? Had he even taken those pills? He wasn't sure anymore, his memory was blurry at best.
But surely, If he had, the pain would've stopped by now. So maybe he hadn't, actually.
He moved up and towards the cupboard he'd left the rest of the container at. Just two more, that should do it. Or was it three he normally took? Perhaps…. Yeah, he could go for three since he hadn't taken any yet today.
Frank tried getting up to get a cup of water so he wouldn't take them dry, but he stumbled, quickly making his way back to the floor. He got extremely light-headed from the sudden movement, moving towards the couch again but undoubtedly failing as his legs turned out to be unable to sustain his own weight.
Whatever.
He threw the pills down his throat without any liquid help. Wasn't like he needed it anyway, he was used to the impression they left in his trachea.
In five minutes, he would get sleepier than he'd been in weeks - and very especially since yesterday, when he couldn't sleep at all.
In ten, his view would be obstructed by unnatural cloudiness, his skin would feel colder than he remembered it being, and his breaths would slow down and become superficial.
In twenty, the world would become unbearable to watch. His eyelids would become heavier anyway, so he would have to close his eyes, just until it passed.
By the thirty-minute mark, Frank Langdon would be stretched out on the floor of his living room's entrance, no longer conscious. He should've known he would end up there, there was nothing surprising about that.
After all, all roads lead to the hospital, don't they?
Frank Langdon truly was the recipient of a lot of fate's jokes. Sometimes funny ones, other times utterly cruel, often a weird mix of both.
It was a fact, though, that one of fate's most brutal doings was that it didn't wait for you to be ready to throw anything at you. You either caught it, or you missed it — and very rarely did it give you a redo.
The dark-haired man had been given one opportunity to get it right, and he'd failed. Miserably. Again and again.
It should've been the end.
If Frank was sentient, even he would've agreed that it seemed like the end of the line for him. And he probably, sadly, would agree that it was deserved in some capacity.
But destiny was bound to disagree with that. Against all odds, he woke up.
Opening up his eyes proved to be a difficult task, for some reason. His eyelids were glued with rheum and he had to rubbed them open.
Though his vision became clearer, his mind went the opposite way, the fog in it spreading. As he looked around what he expected to be his living room, he realized he'd been moved. Or had he moved himself? Either way, he found himself to be in a bedroom decorated with the Pittsburgh's Penguins' logos everywhere.
Definitely not his, then. Abby hated how much he was a fan of the team, mostly because she didn't like hockey and thought he spent far too much time watching it. He hadn't seen their symbol plastered up on a wall ever since his senior year of med school, as she'd forbidden any ornaments and garnish related to hockey at all from their house.
Wait.
How could that be true If he didn't share a house with Abby? He'd only been dating her a few months now, he wasn't even sure he'd mentioned being a fan of the Penguins yet.
Had he?
God, his head was aching again. Last night had definitely not helped the way he thought it would. Especially since he wasn't sure what exactly had happened last night.
Was this some kind of terrible hangover? He really was getting to old to drink… like… that.
He hadn't been drinking, though.
It had been pills. The memory was slightly coming to him, very slowly. He'd taken many of them, in a very short - and definitely advised against - time. And he had ended up on his floor, trying and failing to make a run for the bathroom to puke it out or the couch to die more comfortably.
And yet, he hadn't died. He'd just been… put elsewhere. By… someone? Or something.
His thoughts are interrupted as the door to his left is fiddled with messily. After three tries, it opens and—
Holy shit.
Frank blinked slowly twice. It didn't help, he still couldn't believe his own eyes.
"Fuck man, we should really change the lock on this stupid door." Said the woman that had managed to pry the entrance open with a bit of brute force.
Yolanda Garcia herself.
Except not the one he knew. Not his oldest friend, who'd helped him through every dark cloud that hovered over his head after his back injury; not the one with eyes who had barely begun to show crow's feet around them; not the one he bantered with constantly whenever she came down from the OR to the Emergency Room.
No, this Yolanda wasn't even aware of all the shitty thoughts he had about himself, couldn't be as the man was certain he didn't talk to her enough yet to let her in. She appeared to have smooth skin, smoother than he'd seen in decades with her, and there was no tension in her shoulders like it always did. She squinted at him, easily sticking out her tongue in mockery of the absolutely stupid face he must be making at her.
In a split second, he surged forward without thinking, wincing customarily as he bent his body forward. Weirdly enough, the pang of pain he'd grown used to feeling when he made such movement didn't come as he'd expected.
Instead of comforting him, that detail only made him panic more.
"Woah dude, you okay?" She asked him, marginally troubled about his sudden reaction to her coming into the room. Their room, the one they shared for four years.
The one he definitely should not be in right now, especially not with a version of his best friend that had long been erased from the face of the Earth; the one who didn't wear leisure as a mask to prevent others from knowing her because she simply was laid-back.
"What year is it?" Yolanda chuckled.
"Damn man, remind me not to let you drink so much the next time we go out." He didn't laugh. He normally would, but his distress was taking a lot more of his brain than he initially thought it was, so he didn't laugh.
"I'm serious, Yo-yo!" Frank shouted, not unkindly but alarmed. The woman's eyes widened, sensing his seriousness now.
The next few seconds weren't the longest of his life, but they had to be competing for a position in the Top 5. The scene around him felt like slow-motion as he watched a young Yolanda pull out her fuckass Xiaomi POCO F1 she'd always hated because of much fast it heated and see, right below the hour:
Friday, September 7th, 2018.
His brain short-cut.
No. Fucking. Way.
The last thing Frank heard was Yolanda's surprised shout ("Langdon, what the fuck!") as the world promptly turned into darkness once again.