filling empty spaces

by uncoolsheu (sheuuu)

Summary:

Frank Langdon is a desperate man, and desperate men do desperate things.

Notes:

inspired by this masterpiece

potentially spoiler-y disclaimer in the end notes; also did kind of give up on the end scene so im sorry if it feels incomplete. all mistakes are my own

Langdon doesn't go home after the argument with Robby. He gets in his car, drives away from the hospital, but he doesn't go home.

It's completely dark out, the sky inky black and infinite above him. The chaos of the past few hours is still evident, every other street congested and backed up with confused drivers. He keeps both hands on the wheel at ten and two o'clock, and doesn't take his eyes off the road for a single second.

For the first time in a long while, his brain is quiet.

He can't go home. He doesn't want to go home. What Langdon wants is to turn around and find Robby, explain himself until his voice gives out, wants to get rid of the coiling anxiety building up in the pit of his stomach. He wants Robby to understand. Why he did it, why he hid it, why it was never a possibility for him to tell anyone about it, especially not him. Langdon wants to be understood.

His house is only fifteen minutes away from the hospital. Even with all the traffic, it doesn't take him long to get there. But instead of turning right onto the street, he goes left down a road he doesn't ever remember taking. He can't go home.

The streets start emptying out as the events of the night fade further and further away. He's still in his scrubs, still has cold sweat drying along his back, still has the smell of the hospital lingering on his skin.

Langdon takes a breath, takes another one, deeper this time. His heart thuds against his chest and he can feel his pulse throbbing in his forearms, can feel the adrenaline snaking down his veins. He twists his fingers into a tighter grip, knuckles white against the dark leather of the steering wheel.

Abby's tucked Tanner in by now. His son is in bed, asleep and breathing and safe under the roof of their house with his wife. He should probably call her, he realizes, let her know he won't be back for a while. Could lie and say he's staying overnight to help out with short staffing. She wouldn't know it was a lie. And after everything tonight, what's one more?

Langdon glances at where his phone rests in the passenger seat, tossed haphazardly alongside the contents of his locker. He thinks about it, decides not to. He doesn't want to talk to her right now. Or anyone, for that matter. But he knows he needs to, and he will, just as soon as he feels — calmer.

He stutters around an exhale and readjusts his grip, pressing his foot harder against the gas pedal. His back has started to cramp and he winces, tries to alleviate the pressure on the base of his spine.

Langdon doesn't do drugs. He takes medicine. He's a doctor, not a fucking drug addict, and a great one at that. Fuck Robby and his accusations. Fuck Santos and her stupid ego, shoving her nose in other people's business. And fuck Dana for not listening to him explain what actually happened. Fuck everyone.

His throat is dry and aching, hoarse after a night's worth of yelling. He swallows around the scratchiness and takes another breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth. Again. Again. And again.

He was taking prescribed medication. Took it, followed the directions carefully, and after two refills, stopped. He drove all the way to a physician in Philadelphia just to avoid running into anyone he knew because he didn't want anyone to know, not after Robby laughed at him. It was his own business. Abby didn't even know he was taking anything for his back pain, thought he was just doing physical therapy.

All for an intern to ruin his life.

Langdon stops at a light, turns his blinker on. After a quick look towards the empty intersection on his left, turns right.

He can't really blame her for it. She did the right thing, objectively speaking. She's got a strong moral code that's important in doctors. If nothing else, at least she has that going for her. Still, Langdon thinks. Still.

Everything has changed and nothing is different. His back still aches with pain, his thoughts still travels a mile a minute, his wife still grieves the death of their firstborn, and after all he's done in the emergency room, after all the people he's saved, he still can't erase that mistake. Instead, he's going to lose his job and medical license, is going to get blacklisted from every hospital in the state, has to go home and look his beautiful wife in the eye and tell her all the things he's been lying about. And she won't want anything to do with him. She'll take the kids and move back in with her parents, or maybe Langdon will let her take the house because it's not like he can pay the mortgage once he's fired, and he'll be alone. Without his family or his friends or his job, without a purpose in his life to keep him going. Everything has changed and nothing is different.

The solution to all of it is right there in front of him.

Langdon squeezes the wheel in his hands, lets its rigidness dig into his skin as he chews on his lip. He closes his eyes for a few seconds, opens them again. The street is empty in front of him, only a couple of cars whizzing by in the opposite direction, the night quiet and still all around. It feels like life has taken a pause, for once, like he's been granted a break.

He could take it. He shouldn't, but he could. Langdon glances at his glove compartment. He could —

His phone buzzes and Langdon startles. He hadn't realize he'd been drifting towards the right and quickly recenters the car, loosened grip tightening back around the wheel. Jesus. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts and after waiting for his heart to calm down, reaches for his phone.

The call has dropped by the time he's grabbed it but another one comes through. He looks at the screen name, blinks, reads it again.

Pick up the damn phone a text pings.

Langdon answers the call, turns on speaker mode before placing his phone in the cup holder.

"Langdon, bud, you there?"

"Uh," Langdon stutters, brows knit together, "yeah?"

"Great," Abbot says through the receiver, and Langdon is so confused. "Where are you?"

"My car?"

There's a short pause and some movement on the other end of the line. "You're not home yet?"

He chews his lip for a second, eyes flicking to the little clock on the car screen. It's a quarter till eleven.

"Langdon?"

"No," Langdon answers finally, "no, not home yet."

Another pause. "Everything alright?"

Yes, Langdon thinks. No. Why are you calling me?

"Yeah, man," he says, "everything's fine. Just goin' for a drive."

More movement, the shuffling of feet against tile and the quiet click of his crutches. "Why didn't you join us after shift?" He asks, voice slightly muffled like he's talking around something.

He stops at another red, looks over his shoulder quickly and ignores the strain the shift causes on his back, merges into the left lane and flicks his blinker on. "Join you where?"

"The park. For a drink. Y'know, like usual."

"Oh," Langdon says. He hadn't realized they were doing that tonight. Should have expected it, probably, considering how chaotic the day had been for everyone. The right conditions, he supposes.

"'Oh,'" Abbot teases through the phone. "What's up with you, man?"

"Nothing," comes his quick response. "Nothing."

The light goes from red to green and Langdon steers gently into the turn. The hustle of nightlife buzzes around him in a muted hum and he focuses on that instead of the heaviness weighing his chest down.

"Look, I gotta go," he says, ignoring Abbot's startled protest. It takes him a couple of tries to get a solid grip of his phone, all while Abbot keeps asking him to wait a second, just one second but he hangs up and tosses his phone aside.

His heart hammers inside his chest and his breath is too fast, too shallow. Calm down, he tells himself. Calm the fuck down. His eyes dart over to his glove compartment, and after a few moments of contemplation, he pulls over to the shoulder. Turns his hazards on and leans down to open the compartment, back screaming at him in pain. He's been on his feet for too long, has spent too much time bent over and lifting heavy objects, wants nothing more than to forget everything about today.

Langdon grabs the pills. They don't even get him high. They're just glorified relaxants, and God knows Langdon needs to relax.

His phone rings again. He ignores it, pops two pills and dry swallows, then waits. Closes his eyes and leans back. Robby's voice echoes in his head. The call drops. Another one comes through. Langdon ignores it. Someone honks at him as they drive by, he honks back. Call drops again. His breathing slowly regulates. Phone rings a third time, maybe fourth. Robby's voice is in his ears, in his head, echoing as he yells. You let me down. You let everyone down. Langdon opens his eyes.

Frank Langdon is not a drug addict.

He waits for the call to drop one final time before grabbing his phone and opening the GPS. He's a half hour from home, which means he's around forty five minutes from the hospital, which means almost an hour away from Robby. He's safe here. Alone, and safe.

He takes a deep breath and turns his hazards off, merges back onto the street and starts the drive back. He still doesn't want to go home.

 

All the lights are off when he finally arrives, and he's creeping up the stairs as quietly as possible with a cold glass of water in his hands when suddenly the hall light turns on. Langdon squints, blinking a couple of times to readjust his vision.

"Where were you?" Abby asks him, one hand still on the light switch, the other clenched into a fist at her side. It's not a demand; her voice is too quiet, too careful for that. The line of her shoulders is slumped. Her hair is a mess of curls on top of her head — she's looking a little worse for wear.

"Hospital."

"No, you weren't. You left over three hours ago."

He doesn't say anything.

"Dana called," she explains. "Said to be extra nice to you tonight. Told me what happened."

Panic seizes through him and he steps forward, grip tightening around his glass cup. "She told you about Robby?"

Abby's face twists. "What?" She says. "No. No, she told me about Pitt fest — what do you mean? What happened with Robby?"

"Nothing," he says quickly.

She purses her lips. "Doesn't sound like nothing."

"Nothing you need to worry about," he adjusts. It's the wrong thing to say; her face twists further and her shoulders tense up like she's just been slapped. "I just mean —"

"Shut up," she whispers. Langdon snaps his mouth shut. "God, just shut up. I'm always worried. About — about the kids, about work, about you. I'm never not worried." She laughs humorlessly. "You're always worrying me."

"I know," he starts, taking another gentle step forward. The last thing he wants to do is have this conversation, now or ever. "We can talk more in the morning, okay? Let's go to bed. Let's just go to bed." He reaches out to her and gathers her in his arms, and she lets him, tucks her face into his chest as she latches on. He presses a smooth kiss into her hair before walking her back into their bedroom and then the bed, pulls her down and tucks her in gently.

"You're a bad husband," she says as he pulls the sheets up to her chin.

"You don't mean that," he croaks.

"Yeah," she whispers. "I do." Her bottom lip wobbles before she's turning to her side and closing her eyes. The conversation is over.

Langdon watches over her for a minute. He breathes out slowly and stands up, knees creaking as he does. He walks to the bathroom, brushes his teeth and takes a long, long shower before finally crawling into bed.

It's cold.

He closes his eyes, does a few breathing exercises one of the guys in his study group taught him back in med school the night before his first exam, and tries to sleep.

 

Abby's already gone by the time Langdon wakes up. He checks for a text or note, anything to let him know where she's gone, but there isn't any. His head is pounding as he makes his way to the kitchen to make breakfast, both kids still fast asleep.

He's just poured the first of the pancake batter — with chocolate chips inside and Nutella to smear on later, just how Tanner likes it — when someone knocks on the door. He pauses, puts the ladle down and slowly approaches the door. The doorbell rings, and more knocking, faster this time.

Langdon looks through the peephole, sighs, and opens the door. Abbot smiles at him through the screen.

"Hey, bud," he says, all concerned. He sounds like his dad.

"Can I help you?"

Abbot raises an eyebrow but his smile doesn't so much as falter. "Can I come in?"

Langdon pinches the bridge of his nose where the pain aches the worst. "Yeah," he says, "yeah, come in." He turns around as Abbot lets himself inside and returns to the kitchen. He flips the pancake, pours a second one next to it.

"Hm," Abbot hums. His eyes follow the movement of Langdon's hands as he works carefully. "You're just having breakfast?"

Langdon blinks at him. "It's morning."

"No," Abbot says, "not really."

He finds the digital clock on the stove and reads the slow blinking digits. He rolls his eyes. "Late morning," he corrects, and takes out the first pancake once it's ready. "What are you doing here, anyway? Shouldn't you be asleep?"

"Wanted to stop by after work," Abbot explains, grabbing a plate for Langdon, "check up on you."

"You went back?"

"Yeah."

He takes the plate and sets it near him. Flips the second pancake, pours another. "Thought it was your day off."

"Oh, it was."

Langdon snorts and turns to face him. Abbot's already looking at him, hands stuffed in his pockets and watching him carefully.

"Hey," Langdon says suddenly, "did Robby tell you anything? About me?"

Abbot doesn't respond immediately and Langdon feels dread creep up his spine, settling into his chest the longer he waits.

"No," he says eventually. "But he didn't have to." He brings a hand up between them and rests a heavy palm on his shoulder, squeezes once before drifting up. Langdon lets him, feels tried all the way down to his bones, wants nothing more than to crawl back into bed and sleep forever.

Abbot looks at him like he knows.

His hand drags across his shoulders and up to his neck to cradle the back of his skull. Langdon can't stop the way his breath catches but Abbot keeps going and Langdon lets him. He spreads his fingers, finds the soft spots beneath his ears and squeezes, all the strength of his body concentrated into his hand.

Langdon exhales. He feels it happen slowly, the way his muscles tense, fight rising to the surface before melting away in a second. He uncoils all the way down from his stiff neck to his aching back and legs, feels his body go limp, feels sucked out and drained.

"You're gonna be fine, kid," Abbot murmurs. His eyes don't leave Langdon's for a single moment, piercing right through him like he's searching for something and is on the cusp of finding it. "You fucked up, but you're going to be fine."

 "I fucked up," Langdon whispers. Abbot digs his fingers in a little harder and the breath rushes out from him in one smooth exhale. "I fucked up."

"I know," Abbot says. "You'll be okay. I promise."

He doesn't believe him, because Abbot doesn't really know, not if he's telling the truth about Robby. But his hand feels so good on his body, and there's still pain thrumming through his veins but it's quieter, duller, feels like someone's taken a thick blanket and draped it around him to block everything out. For a single moment, everything is normal.

Abbot squeezes him one last time before letting go, fingers unfurling slowly where they're still clasped around the back of his head. Langdon breathes in and out carefully until Abbot's hand hangs by his side again.

He turns around and flips the pancakes.

Abbot stays for breakfast. Which, sure, Langdon thinks, why not? He can't even remember the last time Abbot came over, maybe sometime right after the COVID restrictions were lifted, but he knows he is not going to kick him out. Not when he does such a good job keeping his kids entertained.

Langdon sends Tanner off to brush his teeth once he's done eating, then grabs his youngest to clean him up. Abbot stops him.

"I got it," he says, and grabs Hunter out of his arms. Langdon watches as they go down the hall towards the bathroom.

He picks up the dishes and places them in the sink, then wipes down the table with a wet cloth, scrubbing hard at where syrup has spilled over. The extra movement cramps his wrist and his back, but Langdon is and has been weaning himself off, despite what Robby may think. He sucks it up and keeps cleaning.

Abbot returns, empty-handed, just as Langdon's tossing aside the cloth. "They're upstairs," he explains. "Something about a LEGO set."

Right. He bought them a new set a few weeks back, a Lightning McQueen doctor's visit he'd thought was too cute to pass up after spotting it during a late-night grocery run. It was simple, easy to build and with big enough pieces to avoid any safety hazards. "It's a junior set," he tells Abbot. "There aren't any pieces small enough to swallow."

"Okay," Abbot says.

"It was aged two and up." He doesn't know why he feels the need to explain himself, and somewhere in the back of his mind he wonders what Abbot is thinking, coming in to check on him after either sensing the tension between him and Robby last night or picking up on the rumors no doubt circling the hospital. "I'm not a bad father."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Never said you were."

"I'm not a bad father," he says again, quieter, more to himself than anything else. Then: "Why are you here?"

"Because," Abbot starts carefully, taking a slow, small step towards him, "I think you need me. I think you need help."

He wants Langdon to talk about it. He probably doesn't even know what 'it' is, but he's here because he wants them to talk about it. Langdon doesn't want to. No one really does, but it's especially true for guys like them; the kind that get praised for their confidence and reliability, for their perseverance in hard situations that would have broken anyone else. This job will fuck you up if you let it, Robby's voice rings in his head. You let it. If anyone would understand, it's probably Abbot. That's why he's here.

"I've got it under control," Langdon says.

Abbot jerks his head in a nod. "Yeah," he agrees easily. "I'm sure you do. Still, I'm here if you need anything."

Langdon says, "Okay, thanks," because it's the right thing to say, and Abbot nods again.

"Anything you need, really. Anything."

 

Langdon doesn't consider himself to be particularly close with Abbot. Sometimes he doesn't even think they're friends. They don't go out for drinks together, they don't visit each other's houses to watch the home opener game of a new hockey season, don't sit around exchanging stories about their lives during rare calm moments in the ED the way Langdon does with the other residents and nurses, the way he knows Abbot does with Robby. Langdon knows Jack Abbot as Doctor Abbot, Attending Physician, and not as Jack, and Abbot knows him as Doctor Langdon, senior resident, not Frank.

There was a time, though, a few years back. One late night conversation after a particularly heavy shift during Langdon's first year of residency and peak pandemic era. The air had felt stale and thick, like it knew what transpired inside the walls of the PTMC barely an hour ago, and the somber atmosphere left them loose-lipped and desperate. For comfort and forgiveness, maybe even redemption.

He'd sat on the cold metal bench for what felt like hours and stared straight ahead, completely unmoving. It was cool out, a quiet breeze whipping around him and drying the sweat along his skin. Like a sweet, loving caress, like reassurance, like comfort — all things Langdon didn't deserve.

The shrill blare of the flat-lining heart rate echoed through his head on a loop, over and over and over, and with every replay came the moment Langdon had to find the parents and let them know. "Sorry," he'd whispered, tongue thick and cottony, "for your loss. I did everything I could."

Abbot found him eventually. He wasn't in his scrubs anymore, and the click of his crutches had alerted Langdon of his presence before he sat down. Still, he hadn't said nothing, hadn't even spared him a glance. Langdon continued staring straight ahead.

He'd expected him to say something stupid, like 'it's not your fault,' or 'it happens to all of us,' or even, 'you signed up for this job, remember?' but he hadn't said any of that. Instead, Abbot huffed out a quiet breath and said: "It's nights like these I wonder if I have the strength to keep going."

For the first time since he'd started here, Langdon stopped putting up a front.

"What do you do," he asked, "on these kinds of nights?"

"I go home." Abbot said. "I go home and I remind myself I'm still alive. That means something. You make it mean something."

"My wife is pregnant. Abby. She's pregnant again."

He could feel Abbot's eyes on him, boring holes into the side of his head. The night sky was infinite above them and the city unnaturally quiet. The world was on lock down; everyone stuck inside, some families keeping each other whole and others tearing one another apart. Some would come out of this alive, some wouldn't. It's life. Langdon can't escape death no matter where he runs.

"I didn't know you two had a kid already."

"We don't."

Another breeze washed over them, a little stronger this time. Langdon shivered in his scrubs. He felt himself come back into his body bit by bit. For a while neither of them said anything, silence building up between them until Abbot sighed, exhausted and rueful all at once.

"You have to find a way to make your life mean something," he whispered, voice so quiet Langdon had strained to hear him. "There's no point, otherwise."

 

Langdon doesn't go in for work the next day, or the day after that, or the day after that. He stays home while Abby avoids him, feeling like a ghost in his own house. At least Tanner is happy to spend time with him.

He calls Robby a couple of times throughout the day, shooting him a text when he doesn't respond. Langdon is not going to grovel for his forgiveness, even if it's all he wants to do. What he needs from Robby is not forgiveness. What he needs is to know where to go from here — needs to know where he's welcome now, because it's certainly not at the PTMC. Needs to know what he should tell Abby before she comes to him with questions he can't answer.

He's curled up on the couch in the bonus room upstairs, Tanner half-asleep on his chest, when his phone buzzes with a text. It's from Robby. No words, just a singular attachment. Langdon recognizes it as a rehab referral form.

Fuck you, he sends, fingers typing before he's even thinking about it.

This or pink slip. Your choice.

There's not really a choice to make. Both of them know this.

Fuck you, he sends again for good measure. He's filling out the form online, bottom lip trapped between the jagged lines of his teeth, half-formed anger and something else he can't be bothered to pinpoint thrumming through his veins when Robby thumbs-up his message.

He has to close his eyes and remind himself to breathe before he's able to finish the application. He sends it off, pushes Tanner away with a muttered apology when he whines, and goes to the bathroom to throw up.

Langdon isn't a drug addict.

He crawls into bed that night when Abby's already tucked herself in, sleeping on her side at the edge of the mattress. He wraps an arm over her waist and nuzzles his nose against her nape, breathing in the familiar smell of her, anxiety and high-strung energy he hasn't been able to shake off for days now slowly giving way to calm. He sighs and presses a gentle kiss to her warm skin.

She shakes his arm off.

Langdon blinks, staring at the back of her head.

"Sorry," she rasps. "Not feeling it tonight."

"I wasn't — I wasn't trying to start anything, I swear."

He hears her take a sharp breath and his heart races inside his chest. "Just leave me alone, Frank. Please." Her voice cracks on the last word and something inside him shatters.

"Okay," he says into the quiet of the room. "Okay. Sorry." He waits a second, just to see if she'll say anything.

She doesn't.

Langdon slips out from behind her and grabs his keys off their hook. He gets in his car, turns on the ignition, and drives off.

 

He's running out.

Langdon runs a hand through his hair, tugging lightly at the strands, before letting his hand fall back down into his lap.

His life is ruined.

His best friend — best resident, the permanent voice in his head reminds him — doesn't want to talk to him, his wife is slipping through his fingers and that's before she even knows about everything, and everyone else he's ever been close to lives in a city Langdon hasn't stepped foot in for years. He has roots here, in Pittsburgh, and now they're being yanked out from right under him. It's only a matter of time before it all comes to a head, concludes in a fiery mess worse than he can even begin to imagine.

The plastic bag of pills crinkles in his hand. He could save himself the trouble. He could, and not for the first time, the thought of making it all go away hits him. It hits him harder than ever before, hits him so intensely he's breathless with the thought of it. It's there, right at his fingertips. It would be so easy, too. He doesn't have a lot left but he has enough, as long as he plays his cards right. He could do it.

Langdon breathes carefully, lungs burning with the shallowness of it. It's cold out and he shivers lightly, wearing nothing but a thin cotton shirt and well-worn sweats. God, he thinks. He's a fucking mess.

He was supposed to make his life mean something. And he was close, too, was so achingly close to figuring it all out, to making himself useful. If not at home, then at work. If he can't save his own kid, he can save someone else's.

His chest burns and Langdon groans, folding over his lap and tugging at his hair again. He squeezes his eyes shut, mind racing a mile a minute, replays of the worst moments of his life playing in his head; sterile hospital rooms where he's standing at the wrong end of the bed, a doctor with red-rimmed eyes shaking her head at him, apologizing, a hand in his that he can't feel tugging desperately at him. Bending over to pick something up, standing up and regretting it immediately when he feels his back shift, pain blooming all across, his parents fluttering around him in worried drones. Medicine that makes it all okay, makes him feel right again, turns off his brain and the hurt, both emotional and physical, brings him to a plane of normalcy he hasn't been in for years. A sterile white room, again, anxiety and fear pumping through him, desperation clawing at his chest, yelling, shoving, begging. Pleading.

Langdon gasps, clutching at his chest with cold hands, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to breathe around the constriction. He just wanted a break, couldn't keep fucking pretending, couldn't keep carrying that weight around everywhere he went. And it followed him everywhere. Twenty-four seven, nonstop, his mind too loud and his body too weak and he never meant to make it all worse but fuck he needed to do something. Needed to manage himself without burdening the people in his life more than he already does.

He opens the plastic bag with shaky hands, cold sweat coated all over him as he shivers, shakes, agitated and irritated. Two small pills fall into his palm, two guaranteed promises of quiet, two capsules of salvation. Langdon swallows them down and leans back, resting against the plastic slide of his kids' favorite park.

He sits there for a long while, eyes closed and face cast upwards towards the dark clouds overhead as he finally, finally feels himself come back down. He takes a deep breath, holds it for a few seconds before letting it out slowly. Does it a few more times before he opens his eyes again.

He's still got a few handfuls of pills left. Still has enough. But the memory of Tanner sleeping on his chest flashes through his mind, and he remembers the way he'd drooled all over his shirt, eyes half-lidded and sleepy as he swore he was still awake. Remembers the way Tanner was so excited to spend the day with him after finding out he was staying home for the weekend, grabbed his hand and followed him around everywhere, content even to just lie on the couch and stay there as they watched TV.

Langdon sighs. He tucks the pills back into his pocket and heads for his car.

 

The house is empty the next morning. Abby and the kids are gone and he doesn't know where. Doesn't bother calling to ask. He spends the morning in the living room watching reruns of preseason games and checking his phone obsessively, waiting for Robby to give him his next steps like an obedient fucking dog.

His head hurts.

He's half-asleep with his head thrown back against the cushions when his phone buzzes, and Langdon winces when he reaches for it, both his neck and back stiff from holding an awkward position. Scrubbing a hand down his face to push away the last of the drowsiness, he checks his notifications.

There's a message from Robby. He sits up straight, takes a deep breath in and deep breath out, then clicks on the link he's sent.

Inpatient rehab. Langdon laughs bitterly.

Are you serious? he sends.

Deadly. This or nothing.

He chews his lip between his teeth, grabs a handful of his hair and tugs. What am I supposed to tell Abby?

Cut the bullshit and start telling the truth, for once.

I'm not a drug addict.

Yes, Robby sends, you are. Then, a few minutes later, I'll drop you off day of. You've got 2 days to get yourself ready.

He spends the rest of the day waiting around for his wife to come home, dread sitting heavy in the pit of his stomach and nails bitten to hell. Finally, nearly four hours later, he hears her come in through the front door.

"Hey," he greets.

Abby doesn't respond. She's clutching a folder close to her chest, not looking him in the eyes as she toes her shoes off.

"Where are the kids?"

Her throat clicks as she swallows and Langdon feels his heart drop to his ass. "They're with my parents," she whispers, voice low and afraid. "I thought it was best."

"Abby —" He takes a step towards her but she stops him, shaking her head and backing away. "Abby," he croaks, pulse thrumming in his veins as panic takes over. He needs to take control of the situation, needs to bring them back to the same page, needs her to sit down and — and take a breath, wait a second, maybe think before doing anything rash. "C'mon, don't do this."

She shakes her head again, hair flying across her face. "No," she says. "I'm sick of this, Frank. I'm sick of feeling like an outsider in my own marriage."

"You're not an outsider," Langdon pleads. "You're not, why would you — why would you even say that?"

"Because!" She shouts, finally stepping away from the front door. Her face is red and tears are welling in her eyes, and Langdon to cradle her against his chest, brush her hair back and wipe away the tears flowing down her reddened cheeks. "You don't tell me anything! I don't know what's going on in your life anymore, Frank, I don't," she pauses, breathing in shakily before continuing, every word wedging a knife deeper into his chest, "I don't know who you are anymore. You're not the man I married."

"Of course I am," he pleads. He steps forward again but she steps back, and Langdon puts his hands up placatingly. "I haven't changed at all. You know me, Abby, of course you know me. I'm your husband."

"My husband," she says, pain etched into the lines of her face, and how could Langdon leave behind the woman he's spent so much time loving, the woman he watched grow into herself, the woman who's been with him for as long as he's been nothing, "isn't a junkie."

He feels like he's been slapped. "What?"

Abby steels herself and wipes away her tears, even as new ones come in to replace them. "You heard me."

"How did you —" he swallows, tries again. The room is spinning around him. "Who told you?"

"No one had to tell me." She steps closer to him, and this time he's the one who steps back. He feels like he's going to throw up. "You're not very good at hiding things." She reaches into her pocket and throws something at him.

It's the same bag from last night. Langdon sways on his feet, steadying himself with a hand on the wall as black spots enter his vision.

"Found these in your car a few days ago. I was already suspicious something was up, but I didn't think it was fucking drugs. Really, Frank? After everything that you've seen? All the people you couldn't save?"

"It's not what you think," he says, the words uncomfortably familiar in his mouth even as his voice doesn't sound his own. His body doesn't feel like his own. "I'm not — I'm not high."

"No," Abby says. "You're just a liar." She throws the folder at him and it spills out between them, papers flying across the floor. He already knows what they say. Langdon closes his eyes, clutches onto the wall with both hands this time. "Don't call me," she tells him with an air of finality that he doesn't try to argue against. "Don't text me, don't even talk to my parents. Sign the papers and I'll agree to joint custody. Don't, and I won't keep your secret to myself. Good luck seeing your kids once the court finds out about your drug problem."

It's almost instinctual, the way he opens his mouth to argue. 'I don't have a drug problem.' 'I'm not a junkie.' 'I don't need anyone's fucking help.' But he shuts his mouth, teeth clacking together with a harsh sound. Instead, he asks, "When will you pick up the papers?"

"I'm not waiting," she snaps. "You're signing them now."

Langdon's chest seizes, emotions welling up from within so intensely he thinks he'll burst with it. "Fuck," he hisses. "Fuck, okay. Okay."

Abby nods but the movement is jerky and Langdon knows she's doing her best to put on a brave face. He thinks about how things are catapulting out of control, how his marriage is literally being torn out from under him, his wife unable to look at him for longer than a few seconds like they're strangers and not two people who loved each other and kept loving each other even when things got tough.

But love isn't enough anymore. She's tired. Langdon can see it in the slumped line of her shoulders, the permanent furrow between her brows. Her face is sunken in and Langdon wants to blame her for giving up on him but the truth is he can't. This isn't anyone's fault but his own no matter how he tries to twist it.

Langdon bends down and picks up the papers strewn across the hardwood floor. His back groans but he moves slowly, gathering everything in his hands before carefully straightening up and moving into the living room. He doesn't wait for Abby to follow, just swipes a pen from a nearby shelf and starts signing wherever he needs to. He barely looks at the words, vision too blurry to read anything even if he wanted to, and less than ten minutes later he's handing everything back to her.

"There," he rasps. Clears his throat, tries again. "Let me know if there's anything else you need."

Abby looks at him. She looks like she wants to say something, maybe apologize, but Langdon puts a hand on her arm and gently pushes her towards the door. She takes the hint, sending one last sorrowful glance over her shoulder before she's stepping out and closing the door behind her.

He doesn't know how long he stays there, staring at the stained-glass window of a house he started a family in, a house he turned into a home and knowing that all of it is disappearing right in front of him. He sighs, breath ragged and rough, and drags a clammy hand over his face.

Everything really is over.

 

The next two days pass in a blur of trying very hard not to think of anything at all when all his brain does is talk, talk, talk. It only works during the day, when there are distractions for him in every corner, but every night without fail his thoughts catch up to him, and every night Langdon tells himself there's something waiting for him at the end of this, even if he isn't completely sure what 'this' entails.

Abbot texts him a few hours before Robby's supposed to pick him up, and this time when he asks if there's anything he can do for him, Langdon says yes. He doesn't let himself think about it; he sees the text, is hit with the all-consuming feeling of being so fucking alone, remembers the firm weight of Abbot's hand on the back of his neck, and says yes.

Half an hour later, Abbot's in his living room again, wearing a hoodie and looking so calm that for a second Langdon really does believe everything is going to be fine, just like Abbot has told him.

"Thanks for coming over," Langdon says. He wrings his fingers together, drops them to his sides, brings them back up and wrings them together again.

"Don't worry about it," Abbot responds, and then's he's stepping forward to grab one of his hands to stop his fidgeting. Langdon barely manages to keep himself from apologizing. "You seem tense, man. You wanna talk about what's bothering you?"

He shakes his head.

"Okay," Abbot says. There's a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips and Langdon's fingers twitch where they're still caught in his grasp. "What do you usually do to relax?"

It used to be running, Langdon thinks. And then he hurt his back and his job never really allowed for it to heal properly so he started taking drugs instead. Got addicted to the feeling they gave him, fell in love with the way they could put him in a plane of calm unlike any other. But he can't say any of that, so instead, he says, "I like to watch movies."

"Sounds good to me," Abbot agrees, halfway to a smile.

Langdon gets them set up, moving around the pillows on the couch until they can both sink back into the cushions comfortably, and he doesn't exactly relax but he starts feeling less and less like his heart is going to burst straight out of his chest. Abbot's got an arm across the back of the couch with his good leg tucked under his thigh, and Langdon has his knees to his chest while he scrolls through Netflix.

Abbot doesn't offer any input, so Langdon just clicks through until he finds a film he hasn't already seen before. The opening credits roll in, and thirty minutes in he gets so invested that he doesn't notice he's been frantically shaking his leg until he feels a firm grip on his knee.

He glances over to his left but Abbot hasn't taken his eyes off the TV. Langdon watches him for a few moments, observes the slow rise and fall of his chest, and suddenly all he can think about is how stable he is. He's never seen the guy freak out, has always seen him stay cool no matter how intense a situation gets, and Langdon has no delusions about the emotional turmoil of war but clearly he's well regulated.

He purses his lips and turns back to the movie. The hand on his knee pushes down harder until he straightens his leg out, and then Abbot's sliding his palm up over the top of his thigh. The pressure is enough that Langdon feels it all the way through his leg but gentle enough that it doesn't hurt — it's grounding him, and he feels the bubble in his chest deflate just that little bit.

He doesn't move again for the rest of the movie.

 

Robby, when Langdon lets himself look at him, seems surprised to see Abbot. He busies himself with grabbing his duffel bag while they talk, bending down to sit it comfortably in the trunk of Robby's car. The last thing he wants to do is be alone with him for thirty minutes but Robby has made it very clear: if he wants any part of his life back, then he better obey every last word. Like a pet, Langdon thinks again. The thought makes his stomach churn.

"Careful," Abbot says, sliding up next to him. He puts a hand on his back, and already Langdon feels himself relax under the warmth of his touch. "You don't wanna hurt your back."

He steps away like he's been burnt. "What?"

For the first time tonight, Abbot looks uncertain. "What?" He repeats. He sounds genuinely confused.

Langdon spares a glance at Robby but he's not paying attention to either of them, nose buried in his phone. "Nothing," he says. "Sorry, I didn't, uh. Didn't hear you right."

Abbot nods slowly. "Okay," he agrees easily, and Langdon is grateful for it, letting out a quiet breath. His hand returns, this time to the top of his back with his fingers splayed right over the knob of his spine. Langdon lets himself push back into the touch. Abbot squeezes the same as last time, digging harshly into the soft spots right under his ears; the tension melts off him almost immediately.

"Thanks," Langdon says quietly. He can see Robby from the corner of his eye, arms across his chest as he now watches them silently.

When Abbot speaks, his voice is rough, lower than Langdon expects. "I told you," he starts, eyes locked onto his, "anything you need, I'm here."

He waits for Langdon to nod before letting go, squeezing him one last time as he pats his shoulder. They step back and Abbot slams the trunk closed, and then he's walking him around to the passenger door. Langdon still doesn't know how much he knows. Doesn't know how much he wants him to know.

"I'll see you later," Abbot says, and then he closes the door for him and they drive off.

It's so awkward.

The silence between them is anything but comfortable; the air is thick with tension and Robby's knuckles are white around the steering wheel. His entire body looks strung up.

Langdon looks away, turning his gaze out the window. It's late September, which means the sun has already set by now. The city is coated in a blanket of darkness, and, for once, the roads aren't congested. Streetlights illuminate the highway as they speed down, and Langdon exhales gently, leaning his forehead against the cool glass of the window.

Robby drives slowly and carefully, the only sound in the car coming from the GPS periodically directing them where to go. Eventually Langdon is able to relax into the chair. Whatever happens with them, whatever happens to him, it all comes after this. Thirty day inpatient rehab first, everything else after. He repeats it to himself over and over, hoping eventually he'll start to believe in the 'after.'

"I'm doing this for you, you know," Robby says a little over half-way into the drive. "I just want you to get better."

Here is what makes Frank Langdon tick: well-meaning concern that invades into his personal life and feels more like a noose around his neck than anything else, a string of bad decisions that trip into more bad decisions because he craves nothing more than to exist independently of all that trails behind him, a life spent being praised for one distinct accomplishment, and an adulthood spent chasing the ghost of that high.

"I don't know why you care so much about what I do anymore," Langdon huffs. His breath fogs the window before disappearing a few seconds later. He keeps his eyes on the road. "I was just your resident. And I'm not even that anymore."

"Really?" Robby says. He sounds tired, exhausted, like all his fight has been sucked out of him. Langdon feels a pang of guilt but mostly he feels annoyed. "That's all you are to me?"

And it hurts, the way he says it like it's Langdon's fault, like Langdon's the one putting all this distance between them, as if he's the one who left him behind and not the other way around. As if somehow the gaping hole in his chest shaped exactly like Robby's anger is Langdon's fault.

"You told me that," he hisses through his teeth. He can't help turning around to look at Robby this time. "You made it very clear exactly how little I mean to you. I'm not your friend, I'm your colleague." Robby looks taken aback, like Langdon being hurt by him is something unexpected. It only makes him feel worse.

Robby spares a glance at him, lips pursed into a thin line. "I didn't meant that," he says quietly, barely above a whisper. "You were my friend, you are my friend. I care about you, Langdon."

He turns back to the window and lays his head against it once more. The chill of the glass is welcome against his heated skin. He thinks about keeping the argument going but decides against it. They'll just keep running in circles.

For a while afterwards Robby keeps sending him glances over his shoulder, like he's waiting for him to say something. Eventually he sighs and gives up, turning his attention back to the road. The tension is worse than earlier, somehow, and Langdon swallows around the lump in his throat.

The car stops in front of a nondescript white brick building a few minutes later. "We're here," Robby announces.

Neither of them move.

"Langdon —"

Langdon opens the car door and steps out, moving around to the trunk. His heart is in his throat but he pushes through, not waiting for Robby to join him before he's yanking his bag onto his shoulder and storming up to the glass double-doors of the entrance.

The check-in process goes by quickly, and Langdon should be grateful for it but he can't think around the anxiety and dread building up in his system. He signs a couple of forms, answers some questions, is given a room number and then: "You're free to go in as soon as you're ready."

"Okay," he says, "thanks."

The receptionist nods at him.

Robby's already looking at him, arms crossed tight over his chest. His fingers twitch on his bicep but all he says is, "Good luck, Langdon," and then he's gone.

It takes a few more minutes before he feels ready to move. It's almost an out-of-body experience, making his way down the halls of the facility, and he can't shake off the voice in his head reminding him he's in the wrong position. He stops at a door, double-checks to make sure it's his, and walks inside.

 

Rehab is a fucking joke.

If Langdon has to sit around and listen to someone drone on and on and on about their problems before inevitably bursting into tears and holding everyone in a stuffy room for longer than they need to be one more time, he thinks he might actually put a bullet in his head. It fucking sucks.

He's not like them. He's not addicted to drugs the way they are. He can admit now that he didn't have as much control over the situation as he liked to believe, but still — this is an entirely different ballpark. Being here might actually make him worse. These people are real drug offenders. The mom with the dentures lost custody of her kids because she was ditching them at a park in the middle of the night for crack houses; the small guy that looks like he's never even heard of puberty has apparently snorted enough cocaine to require a heart monitor; the guy with the twitchy hands has permanent scarring on his forearms from repeatedly injecting heroin into his bloodstream. Langdon looks around and wonders what the fuck he's doing here.

The only good thing about being in inpatient is that he doesn't have to cook his own meals, and surprisingly, the food is actually good. Still, the best part of his day is undeniably when they're finally released for free time, where he can slink back into his room and nap before the next task in his schedule.

He opens the door to the room, trying to sigh as quietly as possible. He strips off all his clothes and changes into a new shirt, no pants because he's been sweating nonstop all morning and needs to cool off. It's been almost a week since he's got here and, not unexpected but still disappointing, Robby hasn't reached out. No one has, for that matter, although it's also true that no one else is aware.

Still, it stings. Just a little, and only when Langdon lets it.

He grabs his phone from the desk near his bed, scrolling through the handful of notifications that have rolled in while he was away. And right there, paired with a simple text, is a call from Abbot.

Langdon calls him back. It rings once, twice —

"Hey," Abbot says. "You're not busy, are you?"

"No, I'm not really doing anything right now." True for a lot of reasons.

"Oh, sick, that's perfect. I was gonna ask if you wanted to come over for dinner. I was thinking of making some chicken and mashed potatoes. Something hearty." He sighs, the sound of it almost robotic through the receiver. "It's been a long week."

Langdon runs his hand through his hair, wiping off the excess sweat on his shirt. He's due for a shower soon. "Yeah, man, I feel that. But, uh, I can't come over."

"You can't?"

Langdon licks his lips. He contemplates how much information he's willing to give up but at the same time: this is Abbot. No bullshit, no nonsense Abbot. He's been helping him out even without knowing a thing, was worried enough to come to his house unprompted just to check in. And, though he hates how frequently the thought has been circulating in his mind, he's lonely.

"I'm not allowed," Langdon says. He holds his breath.

There's a brief pause where he can practically see the cogs turning in Abbot's head. "Not allowed?" He asks carefully.

"Yeah," he croaks, voice sounding strained even to his own ears, "y'know, 'cause…I mean, you know the rules of inpatient."

"Right," Abbot says without missing a beat. "I do know the rules. You're allowed visitors, aren't you?"

He lets out a breath, feeling the coil in his chest unravel as he does so. The window in his room is small and high up, but there's enough surface area for some sunlight to filter in as day slowly bleeds into night. It's a weekend, which means visiting hours are extended, which means Abbot can come see him if that's really his plan. And Langdon really hopes it is.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I am."

There's the sound of movement from the other end of the phone, then: "What's the address?"

 

"Damn," Abbot whistles as he steps through the door and into the large room. Not his room, because they're not allowed to take visitors in there. Too private, too secluded. Visitation rooms still offer privacy but are easier access for staff, in case anything were to happen. "This is a nice facility. How much does it cost?"

Langdon blinks at him from across the coffee table, feels his brain white out.

"Jesus," Abbot says. "Don't tell me you don't know?"

He doesn't even remember taking out his wallet at any time during his check in, not for his insurance (which he has, and a great one at that) or his credit card. The obvious answer is right in front of him but Langdon doesn't want to think about what it would mean if — a hard if — it were true.

The same thought seems to cross Abbot's mind because he laughs and shakes his head, scrubbing a hand over his face as he drops down into a chair. "Jesus," he says again. "Robby must —"

"I don't want to talk about Robby."

Abbot raises a brow. "Alright," he says after a minute. "Are you willing to talk about…" he gestures around the room and Langdon feels heat rising to his cheeks.

"Long story," he mutters.

"I'm here for you," Abbot repeats, the words now familiar to his ears as he starts unpacking food onto the table; takeout, because he hadn't wanted to waste any time cooking when he could be with Langdon instead. His words. "Which means I'm here for your long stories. Not like there's much more we can get up to trapped in here." He says it with an easy smile gracing his face, and for the first time since he's got here, Langdon feels himself relax. Just slightly, but it's progress.

"Got caught with benzos," he mutters like it explains everything. It doesn't, and they both know it, but Abbot hums like he understands anyway.

The conversation drops as Abbot pivots to instead tell him about his last shift at the PTMC. It sounds like a nightmare but he spares no details, and Langdon gets so invested about a case where a young girl had passed out in the middle of a crosswalk for seemingly no reason that he doesn't notice the first touch on his knee. The second time it happens it's a little more forceful; he can feel the dig of Abbot's knee against his own, but he keeps talking like nothing's going on and it makes Langdon lose track.

"Are you still listening?" Abbot asks after a while.

Langdon's throat clicks when he swallows. "No," he confesses quietly.

Abbot snorts. The sound of it makes his lips twitch. "C'mere," he says, and Langdon doesn't think about it before getting up and plastering himself to his side. Abbot laughs again, gently, warm and sincere, as he tangles his fingers in Langdon's hair.

"I keep telling you, man," he says as he rubs through the short strands on his nape, "I'm here for you. I don't know how else to get you to understand." Then he tightens his grip, grabbing the back of his neck harder, his fingers digging into firm muscle.

It happens slowly, just like before: he tenses up, shoulders twitching, before all the nervous energy bleeds out from under him, muscles unwinding. Langdon feels himself sinking — into the chair, into Abbot's side, into a plane where everything is quieter. It feels good. Whatever Abbot's doing, it's good.

"There we go," he mutters gently. "You're always so tense, kid. Gotta learn to relax a bit."

"Yeah," Langdon agrees. His voice is unexpectedly rough. "I know."

That's how it starts.

 

Abbot keeps visiting him. Brings takeout or homemade food, waits until they're both finished eating, then gets a hand on his body. Langdon isn't stupid. Once is a mistake, twice is a coincidence, three times is a pattern. He can see what's going on. He's just not interested in stopping it.

Abby doesn't visit him but she texts him. Like an acquaintance, though, not like his wife, and maybe that's because Langdon had never given her the chance to be his wife the way she deserved but it doesn't mean he loved her any less. Loves. Loved? Their love was real but it wasn't enough. He can understand that. Anyway, she checks in on him and sends him pictures of their kids, feeds them lies so he can preserve their perception of him for at least a couple of years and he's eternally grateful for it.

"Where are you staying after this?" Abbot asks him towards the end of his inpatient stay.

Langdon shrugs and the movement jostles Abbot. He stabilizes them with a hand on his thigh, palm warm and grounding, before seemingly deciding to leave it there. "We have a guest room in the house," he says, "guess I'll just stay posted up in there."

"Would Abby let you?"

Langdon rolls his eyes. "She's not going to kick me out when I have nowhere to go. Besides," he adds, leaning forward to fix his posture, "it'd just be until I can find a new place. An apartment or something, someplace near the hospital." If Robby decides to let him come back.

"Without a job?" Abbot says. He squeezes his leg a little harder. "How are you gonna afford that?"

"With my savings?"

He shakes his head, and this time Langdon's the one getting jostled. "Don't drain your account on accommodations."

"What else am I supposed to do?"

Abbot shrugs, starts drumming his fingers on Langdon's leg. "You could stay with me instead."

He opens his mouth to say no, closes it. Thinks about it. It feels like a bad idea but he can't come up with a single reason why. Abbot still strokes his fingers on his knee, over and over again, like he's soothing Langdon or maybe himself. He stares at the wedding band still on his finger.

"Okay," he says.

The smile on Abbot's face erases any worries.

 

When's checkout? Robby texts him on his last day.

Langdon folds the last of his clothes into his bag, then grabs his phone.

Don't worry about it.

He gets left on read.

 

"You're tense," Abbot says.

Langdon looks at him. He's leaning against the doorframe of the guestroom, watching as he unpacks his bag. The drive to Abbot's house had felt — strange. Not uncomfortable like it had been with Robby but the air between them had still been off. Electric, maybe. Charged. Like there was something going on that neither of them were willing to be the first to acknowledge. He feels that same atmosphere here, following him from the car and through Abbot's front door, all the way to this moment.

"I could help you out."

He waves him off. "It's fine," Langdon says. "I don't have a lot of things to unpack, anyway."

Abbot steps inside, staring at him with something in his eyes that makes his body get ahead of itself. The door closes behind him with a soft click. "Not what I meant."

Langdon licks his dry lips. He's about to ask what he means but doesn't get a chance because Abbot crosses the room to get to him and sinks to his knees without another word.

He blinks, brain trying to catch up. He feels all the blood in his body rush to his face, doesn't have to see his reflection to know how flush he gets. Heat simmers beneath his belt.

"You need to unwind," Abbot murmurs, hands coming up to rest on his hips. Langdon twitches at the touch, hips jerking forward, and Abbot smiles. "I could help you out."

There's a slew of questions storming through his head, thoughts coming to him fast enough that he can't grasp onto one long enough to spit it out. But Abbot waits for him patiently, stays holding onto him with a steady grip as Langdon tries to find the right words. Eventually, he settles on: "Why?"

Abbot tilts his head, one eyebrow raised.

"I mean, what are you getting out of it?"

"Frank," he says, and the sound of his name in his voice makes a shiver curl up his spine, "it's not exactly a hardship for me to get you off."

Jesus. Langdon closes his eyes, feels the red in his face deepen with equal parts embarrassment and arousal.

"And you really do need to relax."

"Alright," Langdon says, opening his eyes again. Abbot's still on his knees, still staring up at him, still has his hips pinned in place. He can feel his blood pumping throughout his body, can feel it coming alive inside him. "Can we move to a bed first?" His back aches from the long drive down and he doesn't think he has the strength to keep himself up if Abbot — he bites his lip, stops himself from getting ahead.

"Sure," Abbot agrees. He stands up and leads them to the bed behind them, shoving away the clothes still strewn across the sheets. Langdon goes to complain about it but Abbot pushes him down before he can say anything, crawls up until he's kneeling over him. "Take off your clothes."

He rushes to comply. Part of him is wondering if he should really be doing this, if this is something he should let Abby know about before jumping into, if this is something he is rushing into — but Abbot is right; Langdon does need to relax. He feels like he hasn't been relaxed since the day Robby made him open his locker, and he hasn't relapsed once but not a second goes by without Langdon wishing he would. Just one more pill, one final moment to relive it.

Anyway, this beats any other option by a long shot.

He shrugs off his shirt and pulls down his pants, deciding to leave his boxers on after a second of hesitation. Abbot doesn't tell him off so he lays back down and waits, fingers furling and unfurling by his sides.

He can feel eyes trailing over his body, taking note of everything from his toes all the way up the crown of his head. His gaze is heated and it feels nice, dick twitching at the attention. Langdon preens, puffing up his chest to show off now that he knows he's desired, knows someone still wants him even after everything.

Abbot sighs and runs his palms up Langdon's legs. He shivers slightly, his touch cold and electrifying. "Look at you," he coos. "Gonna be good for me?"

Langdon bites his lip, widens his legs just a bit more.

"Yeah," Abbot says. "I know you will. C'mon, arms up."

He listens, puts his arms over his head and crosses them at the wrist, grabbing a forearm in opposite hands. Abbot nods approvingly.

"Tell me if you don't like something," he says, and Langdon agrees even though he knows Abbot could do anything to him right now and he'd be grateful for it, would say thank you and beg for more.

His fingers skim at the edge of his briefs, tracing the fabric where it bites into his skin. Like this, it's hard not to notice the weight he's lost, the muscle that's deteriorated with his lack of exercise, but Abbot looks at him like his body is something to be treasured. Warmth spreads through his chest as Langdon watches Abbot drink in the sight of him.

Finally, he dips down, thumbs squeezing into the inside of his thigh. He pushes his legs further apart, breath fanning on his leg, and Langdon has half a second to prepare before he feels the sharp sting of a bite. He tenses, tightening up, but Abbot firmly keeps his legs down, digs his teeth in a little harder. It fucking hurts — the burn of the bite travels all the through his leg like poison and the way Abbot latches on makes him feel it down to his bones.

He finally lets go and presses a small kiss to the bite. It's hard to see from this angle but Langdon can tell there's already a bruise starting to form, can feel the indentations of his teeth throbbing with his fast pulse. Abbot pets at the hair along his leg, licks a spot of skin right above the first bite, then sinks his teeth in again. Langdon doesn't gasp but it's a near thing.

Abbot continues like that for a while, imprinting his teeth into the sensitive muscle of his thighs, soothing the sting of his bite with a warm tongue and sucking hickeys as he goes. Langdon isn't even capable of tensing up anymore, just hisses at every new bite and fights to keep his legs from clamping down over his head. His dick twitches at another sting, deeper than the rest. He's been hard for a while, tenting the front of his boxers and leaking, but Abbot ignores it. Has been ignoring it the whole time. Langdon has no idea how many minutes have passed.

"Abbot," he croaks, even though what he really wants to say is 'please.' 'Please touch me, please stop teasing me, please make me come.'

He shushes him gently, digs his fingers into the freshly-formed bruises. Langdon digs his teeth into his lip. "Take what I give you," Abbot murmurs, "be good."

He shivers and holds on to his forearms a little harder, blinks away the tears forming in the corner of his eyes. Be good sits heavy in his stomach, a demand and an expectation. Disobey and this is all over, obey and he'll get his treat. Langdon is desperate for it, feels like a wet stray inside a warm home, is practically vibrating with need. He can be good. Langdon will obey.

He's rewarded with a kiss on his hip before the fabric of his briefs is being tugged down, finally. His dick slaps against his stomach once it's released, tip wet and sticky and throbbing in time with his pulse. Abbot shifts and Langdon squirms in anticipation, but he kneels up his body and bypasses his dick. Langdon sags back into the mattress, tries to let the disappointment wash over him.

It must be obvious because Abbot laughs as he starts kissing his belly, nosing along the dark matting of hair as he goes, sucking at the skin around his ribs and up to his chest. He presses a kiss to each nipple, nips at them with his teeth, tugging when it makes Langdon grunt.

He doesn't realized he'd closed his eyes until Abbot's grabbing his chin, tutting quietly. "Keep those open," he reprimands, and Langdon tries to say something but his tongue is heavy in his mouth. He swallows, sees the way Abbot tracks the movement with his eyes, then nods. Abbot hum and leans in, keeps him frozen with the grip on his chin before pressing their lips together. It's a chaste kiss, barely a brush of their mouths before he's pulling back.

Langdon chases him, burns with humiliation when Abbot laughs.

"Down, boy," he teases. "You're too eager."

Humiliation bleeds into something uglier, meaner, as shame clutches at his throat. He's brought back from the edge of a quiet headspace he'd felt himself falling into, is suddenly all too aware of himself and what he's doing. Who he's doing it with. Langdon clamps his mouth shut, runs his tongue over the neat rows of his teeth. He doesn't tell Abbot that it's been months since he and Abby have done anything together, doesn't tell him he hasn't gotten laid in some time close to a year. Doesn't tell him how badly he needs this.

He shuts up and lets Abbot decide what to do with him.

He shifts above him again, the drag of his clothes against Langdon's naked skin rough and slightly painful. Abbot kisses him again, sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, licks at him but doesn't push into his mouth. It's a slow kiss, carefree, like they've got all the time in the world and the freedom to use it all. It helps shut his brain up and the arousal that had diminished a few moments ago comes roaring back stronger than ever. His hands twitch with the urge to grab at him and pull him closer but Abbot's earlier command rings through his head. Langdon bites back a plea and forces himself to sit back and give up control.

Abbot twists a hand into his hair and yanks, pulling Langdon's head back suddenly. He gasps, hips rutting up. Their dicks scrape against each other and Langdon can feel the girth of Abbot even through the fabric of his sweats. Pleasure lights up his spine and he can't help himself from grinding up again and again.

"Sorry," he forces out even as he keeps going, doesn't even think about stopping. It's been so fucking long and he can feel his orgasm creeping up on him quickly, and Abbot feels so warm and rigid and good.

Abbot shoves a knee over his hip, pins him back down. He nearly cries.

"I've got you," he whispers, and then his hand is wrapping around his neglected dick. The faint touch is all it takes for him to tense up and come, his whole body practically vibrating as he lets go. His ears roar and his vision blurs and his back is stiff where he's arching up and it's the best orgasm he's had in a long time, maybe of his life. It feels like minutes pass before he finally slumps back into the mattress, body aching pleasantly.

Above him, Abbot's moving again. Langdon's vision is slightly blurry and he blinks until it clears up, watching with a deep-seated satisfaction as Abbot jerks off on top of him. The tip of his dick is wet with precum, slicks noises filling the air as he fucks his fist frantically.

Langdon still has his arms pinned to the mattress and there's a pleasant fog in his head that tells him to keep them there, even with his desire to touch. It doesn't take much longer, anyway, before Abbot's spilling ropes of come all over him with a loud grunt. It hits his belly first, getting caught in the dark hairs at his navel before traveling up. He feels it cover his chest and throat, some of it even getting on his chin. Langdon exhales shakily and lets Abbot mark him up with every last drop of his come.

Neither of them move for a few moments once he's finally wrung out. Abbot slumps onto Langdon's thighs as he regulates his breathing back to normal. Eventually he stands up, kisses the underside of his jaw as he helps ease Langdon's arms down to his sides. The air is hot with their sweat but it's quiet, calm, and Langdon is so deeply relaxed that he doesn't bother helping with clean-up, content to lie there for a little longer as Abbot wipes them both down with the sheets. Gross, but understandable.

"Shower?" He asks once they're as clean as they can get.

Langdon hums, stretching, and sighs gently when his spine pops. "Later," he says.

Abbot shrugs but doesn't argue, pats his hip until Langdon gets the hint and scoots over. It's a tight fit, the bed hardly big enough for two men of their size, but the forced proximity means they're touching each other no matter how they try to sit and the comforting warmth of his body makes happiness sinks through his pores. Langdon shifts to feel Abbot pressing against him more firmly before promptly passing out.

 

First thing he notices when he wakes up is how well-rested he feels. His entire body is loose-limbed, his mind is oddly clear like someone's scrubbed away the grime on an old window. Second thing he notices is he's fucking sweating bullets. Langdon groans, sitting up and pushing the sheets off his body. He looks around. Third thing he notices is Abbot's gone.

Well. It's not unexpected. Technically he's still a married man, and technically Abbot is still his boss. A lot of what they did probably violated some rules, legal or societal. Definitely an HR nightmare. But he can't bring himself to regret it, not when he's practically floating with how light he feels.

Langdon sighs, stretching his arms over his head before getting up. He ignores the shower and slips on the pair of pants he was putting away before Abbot came in, slowly shuffling down the hallway and into the kitchen. He finds Abbot there, back turned towards him as he peers into the fridge.

"You heading out?" Langdon asks. His voice is rough with sleep, quiet and sounding softer than he means it to. He tries not to overthink it.

Abbot turns around. "You're up!"

He scratches his ankle with his toe. Licks his lips, wishing suddenly he'd stayed in bed. "Was I not supposed to be?"

"Just wasn't expecting it," Abbot says. He turns around again, shuffles some things around in the fridge before — "Here," he says. "Food."

Tightness he hadn't realized was constricting his chest unravels, and Langdon steps into the kitchen to grab the small container. He peers inside.

"Dinner," he explains. Langdon hums noncommittally. "Extra chicken in the oven if you want it." He looks him up and down, raising an eyebrow. "You need it."

Langdon scoffs. "You weren't complaining earlier." He regrets the words as soon as they're out of his mouth, snapping his jaw shut. He thinks he probably wasn't supposed to acknowledge it. One and done type of deal. Whatever. He doesn't care.

"No," Abbot agrees, closing the fridge behind him and stepping closer. "I wasn't. And I'm definitely not complaining now either. I'm just pointing out you've lost some unnecessary weight that you should, you know, think about gaining back."

He laughs softly, suddenly all too aware of his bare torso. "Think this might be the first time a doctor suggested anything other than to lose weight."

Abbot rolls his eyes but Langdon can see the amusement in the soft lines of his face. He hip-checks him as he walks around him, and Langdon watches him bend over to grab his bag, quickly looking away when he straightens up again.

"You're so mouthy," he says, and they both pretend to ignore him getting ready for work. Langdon's pretty sure he's supposed to meet with Robby soon so they can decide on their next steps, and the idea sounds so horrifically formal and HR-ish that his stomach churns just thinking about. He glances away from Abbot, saying nothing.

Abbot watches him for a more few seconds before sighing gently. There's that look again, the one that means he gets it even without Langdon having to say anything. His chest warms pleasantly. "I'll see you later," he says. "Make yourself at home."

"Bye," Langdon responds quietly, watching as Abbot leaves, the door closing behind him gently.

It's quiet.

He rolls his shoulders to ease some of the soreness and goes back to his room, leaves the dinner on the counter for later. He figures he may as well go back to sleep.

 

He does not go to sleep.

Langdon groans and flips his pillow, lays back down. Flips it over again and smacks it a few times.

This is fucking ridiculous.

His jaw has gone tight, back molars grinding together harshly. He feels fine; there's no pain anywhere, not in his back or his head or arms — nothing. He feels fucking great actually because he's gotten good sleep for the first time in over a month after that fuck-ass facility Robby forced him into, and sure it wasn't all bad but it sucked anyway, and now he's just. Bored, or something. Can't fall asleep without a good night kiss apparently.

It's hot.

He kicks off the comforter. Sighs again and stares at the ceiling. The fan is already on, spinning slowly above him and clearing out the stink of sex. He'd stripped the sheets off the bed himself, dumped them in the laundry room to take care of later and replaced the sheets with new ones he'd found in a closet. It's a nice house, he's discovered. He's been over a few times in the past but never had the opportunity to explore it until today.

Langdon rolls over onto his side. His fingers twitch with the all too familiar urge of reaching for a pill bottle. It's easier, he thinks, to give in to the cravings than it is to push it all away. He remembers how the in-house psychiatrist at the clinic had said the same. 'It's normal to wish you could relapse. You're acknowledging your addiction and recognizing it as something that exists within you. That's why you're here now. You're trying to get better, to dismantle your bad habits — you've already completed the first step towards recovery.'

No, he thinks to himself, not really.

He kicks his leg out and shoves a pillow between his knees.

The first step is self-awareness. To admit — that you need help, that you're struggling, that you're a pill-popping junkie who can't be around his family without a little extra help. Liquid courage in college, medically-prescribed drugs now.

But that's not true either.

He didn't drink in college, not after his undergrad years. Didn't have time for it with all the exams and rotations, especially during COVID. And when it was finally over and they went back to business as usual, he found that he simply lacked the appetite for it.

So no, the drugs were never about lack of self-control. They weren't about escaping his family, weren't about escaping the stress of his job, weren't even really about relieving the near-permanent aches of his body. They weren't so much an escape as they were a reprieve, short-lived and unsatisfactory.

Plus, Langdon admits ruefully, it's unfair to blame Abby. She was never the problem and even now he can't blame here for leaving him. She hasn't given up on him because she texts him regularly, probably regrets telling him to go no-contact seeing as she hasn't gone more than two days without reaching out. She's genuinely interested in how his recovery is going, regularly sends him pictures of their kids and even covers for him when she reveals the divorce to her parents. She's been nothing but perfect and everything that went wrong between them is unequivocally his fault.

Langdon digs his palms into his face until color bursts behind his eyelids. His head is starting to hurt. He groans and rolls over onto his back, the movement aggravating the bruising between his legs. Pain lights up his nerves and bursts through his body, and he freezes. Bites his lip, lays back more comfortably along the bed. Slips a hand down the front of his pants.

He's only feeling for them, at first, ignoring his dick when it twitches against his thigh, fingers brushing through the sparse hair on his leg. He can feel the indentations of Abbot's teeth in his skin, could probably create a perfect mold of his molars with how far deep the bruises go. Langdon shivers, running his fingers on the highest mark — right on the fat under the junction where leg meets thigh — over and over again.

He doesn't feel like getting off. He could, for sure, and his twitching cock certainly wants him to, but Langdon just — wants to feel it. The evidence. It happened. He can't take it back, Abbot can't take it back. This is something they both did together and they'll both live with for the rest of their lives. The thought is comforting, and he falls asleep like that, nails digging into the bright red of his thighs.

 

It takes him a second to remember where he is. The sheets are warm against his face and it takes every ounce of effort for him to pick his head off the pillows instead of going right back to sleep. He looks around, squinting, trying to figure out what woke him up.

"Sorry," someone whispers.

Langdon exhales and drops back down, throwing an arm over his face. Abbot.

"I was trying to be quiet."

Langdon hums. It's not his fault. He was quiet. But Langdon isn't used to quiet and somewhere deep in his body's memory he probably felt the presence of someone and panicked at the unfamiliar feel of it.

"How was work?" He slurs.

"Fine. Good." There's more shifting and when Abbot speaks again, his voice is muffled. "You didn't eat."

Langdon grunts, hopes he gets his point across.

He thinks he fails but Abbot is unbothered. "Scoot," he says, and Langdon rolls onto his stomach to make room. It's unnervingly easy to let him press against him, naked chest to naked back, his skin warm and soft and his breath fanning along his nape. Abbot's arm drapes over his waist and he's out by the next breath.

 

Langdon wakes up first this time. Slowly, he pulls himself out of the throes of sleep, head soft and fuzzy as he does. It's warm in the room and warmer where Abbot's pressing against him. He doesn't shove him off. The feel of him is comforting but Langdon knows he'll have to move him once it gets too hot to bear. Still, waking up is so pleasant that for a long moment he doesn't want to do anything more than lie there on the bed.

He opens his eyes eventually. The curtains ae drawn shut but the blinds are open, and sunlight pours in through the window. The light follows from the wall to the floor and all the way up to the bed, highlighting the planes of Abbot's face. Langdon watches him for a long time, thinking about nothing and everything all at once.

He wakes up when Langdon shoves him off, and he feels bad about it for half a second.

"It's hot," he says instead of 'sorry,' when Abbot's just raising his head.

He grunts and drops back down. Langdon pulls himself out of the sheets and walks to the kitchen, going straight for the dinner he'd left out. It's in the microwave heating up when Abbot joins him, still shirtless. Langdon looks away.

"Don't eat that," Abbot says around a yawn, already grabbing a pan. "I'll make breakfast."

They eat breakfast. They talk about Abbot's shift, Langdon's sleep, even rehab for as long as Langdon can bear it. They don't talk about yesterday. Langdon feels what they did with every movement.

He's watching Abbot put away their dishes when he says: "Robby asked about you."

"What?"

He dries the mug Langdon drank water from then puts in a cupboard above his head. "Yeah, he wanted to know how you were doing."

Langdon purses his lips. His stomach churns uncomfortably with the knowledge that, for good or bad, Robby wants to know about him. He probably hadn't wanted Langdon to know but Robby clearly isn't ready to cut him off from his life — at least not yet.

"What did you tell him?" He asks after a moment.

Abbot turns around after he puts away the last plate, leaning against the sink with his palms. His eyes are big and alert, and Langdon forces himself not to squirm under his calculating gaze.

"I didn't share details," he says first, and some of the tension seeps out of Langdon's nerves. "I didn't tell him anything about your personal life or anything you told me during our visits in rehab."

"But he knows," Langdon interrupts, "about the visits?"

"Yeah," Abbot says. "He knows."

There's something in his voice when he says it, something Langdon can't quite figure out, but it's there. He's good at masking emotions, especially when it comes to trying to reassure someone, and Langdon supposes this would be considered when of those times, but still. The odd inflection in his voice is there.

"And what did he say about them? The visits, I mean."

Abbot's the one who looks away this time. Only for a second, before bringing his attention back to Langdon. His lips twist to the side in what he recognizes as a nervous tick. "I think you guys need to talk."

It's not what Langdon was expecting him to say. He huffs and steps back. "I don't know about all that."

Abbot shrugs jerkily, smiling ruefully. "It probably won't go very well," he admits, and even though the reminder of the undeniably strained relationship Langdon now possess with Robby — that once used to be solid and perfect — twists something into his chest, he's grateful for Abbot's bluntness. "But that doesn't mean you should avoid it. Seriously, it might do you both some good." He sighs, shoulders dropping low with his breath. "God knows he needs it."

"Robby?" Langdon scoffs. "What could he possibly need from me? An outlet for his anger?"

"Yeah, Robby. He's kind of going through it at the moment, in case you haven't realized." He doesn't say it meanly, but he doesn't say it nicely either. Like he's spitting it at Langdon slowly enough that it doesn't actually land on him. The tension between them is rising and they should just walk away until it clears out but he can't seem to control himself when Robby's involved. Maybe that's true for both of them.

"I'm sure he is," Langdon says, voice thin and strained even to his own ears, "now that his personal chew toy is gone."

"That's not fair."

"Abbot, for fuck's sake, man." He palms at his face, cheeks heated with frustration. "Do you know what it's like working under him? Not with him," he clarifies when Abbot opens his mouth to interject, "under him. What it's like with Robby as your superior."

He pushes off the counter and steps forward, hands reaching out for him. "Come on," he says, smooth and assured, like Robby's never done anything in his life that was less than perfect, and suddenly Langdon feels so wrong in his body, skin pulled too tight over his muscles with arms too long and legs too short and knees too wobbly, "you were his favorite resident. I'm sure —"

"Exactly," Langdon hisses. He takes a step back, takes another when Abbot follows him. His breath is coming out too fast and he's all too aware of the unfamiliar layout of the house, unfamiliar only to himself, "fucking exactly. You don't know what that means. You don't know how Robby gets."

The look on Abbot's face is confused, openly concerned, and defensive all at the same time. He stops following Langdon but keeps his hands out reached. "What are you talking about?"

He doesn't get it because he was never in that position. He was never anything less than Robby's equal, and he's never been on a day shift with both of them at the same time. He doesn't get it because he never had the opportunity to. Langdon doesn't know if that makes it better or worse.

"Never mind," he says. His legs are unsteady. "Fuck, just forget it."

"Langdon, man, come on," Abbot pleads. "Don't do that. Don't push me away."

"I'm not pushing you away."

"You're not letting me in!" He shouts. It's the first time he thinks he's ever seen him lose his composure, and the shock of it snaps Langdon out of whatever stupor he was slipping into. "It's the same fucking thing." He sighs, the sound of it harsh. His voice is calmer when he continues. "I'm trying to understand, okay? But I can't do that if you don't explain."

Langdon licks his lips, mouth dry and sour. His fingers grasp at the wall behind him. "It's not — it's not a big deal," he starts, stumbling over his words. His chest constricts with the cold fear of disappointment. He can't take any more of it. It hurts to force the truth out but it hurts more to see the stricken look on Abbot's face and know he caused it. He doesn't want to disappoint Abbot. He can't disappoint him. "It's just, you know, sometimes Robby pushes too hard. But we're emergency doctors, that's our job, I get it. But it gets too much at times. I can handle it, though, I wouldn't leave or anything."

"He expects too much of you," Abbot says. His face is shuttered.

Langdon prickles at the words, skin burning with their implication. "I didn't say that."

Abbot lifts an eyebrow. "You didn't need to."

"I can handle it," Langdon says again. It's true. He's always handled it. He takes on patients and discharges them faster than anyone, diagnoses the cases that stump everyone else, pushes past his own discomfort to help the endless number of patients. He's a good doctor. He's a great doctor. Robby thinks so too.

"You shouldn't have to," Abbot says. When he steps towards him again, Langdon lets him. The hand on his shoulder makes him shudder with relief as the anxiety overwhelming him slips away.

They stay like that for a few moments, Abbot rubbing circles into his bare skin. Langdon laughs. "All that and we're still shirtless," he mutters. His eyes have slipped shut.

"I know, right? Great start to the day." He brings his other hand up, twists it into his hair. Langdon bites his lip, tilts his chin up and hopes Abbot gets the message.

He does, leaning in for a soft kiss before slipping down to his knees and effectively working out the last of the high strung emotions from their bodies.

 

His leg hasn't stopped bouncing since they sat down. Abbot doesn't say anything about it, just thumbs through his phone like it's another usual day. It is, for him.

Langdon huffs, running a hand through his hair before smoothing it back down.

"You're gonna go bald if you keep doing that," Abbot says without looking.

"Fuck off," Langdon quips. He puts his hands around the coffee in front of him, though, keeps them there until the bell chimes with his arrival.

Robby.

Langdon's heart jackrabbits inside his chest. Everyone can probably hear it — he's almost worried about seriously going into cardiac arrest but he chews his lip and wills himself to calm down.

Robby looks around for a moment before spotting them tucked away in the small corner booth, and his face remains irritatingly impassive as he makes his way to them. He nods at Abbot, glances at Langdon for a half-second as he slides into the seat across them. Langdon is going to kill himself. Hopefully in front of Robby, give him something to really remember him for.

The café they've chosen is small and quiet, decorations littered all over the peach walls with Halloween right around the corner. Langdon sips at his coffee, eyes cast downward. It's gone too cold.

Abbot groans. "Not everyone all at once," he says.

Langdon feels his face flush and spares a glance at Robby. He rolls his eyes but keeps his head tucked into his hands as he reads the small menu in front of him. "We'll get to it when we get to it," he says, and the sound of his voice so low and rumbly, not content but calm, at least, has something aching in his chest.

Robby orders a tea. He comes back from the counter with his drink, sets it down heavily in front of him. Langdon watches a drop spill out and slide down the glass, breaking once it hits the wooden table. It's hot. He tugs at the collar of his jacket.

"So," Robby starts, and Langdon's heart nearly gives out, his stomach churning with nausea, "Langdon." He opens his palms, elbows on the table. "How was rehab?"

Bullshit. "Fine."

"Did you learn anything?"

Langdon's dread gives way to irritation. He opens his mouth. Abbot squeezes his leg in warning, hand warm and heavy on his thigh under the table. He snaps his mouth shut, runs his tongue over his teeth. "Yeah."

Robby lifts an eyebrow expectantly. Abbot squeezes his leg harder.

"I learned," he says slowly, "to recognize I can't always be in control. And to be okay with that." Not a lie. He forces himself not to glance at Abbot, keeps his gaze trained above Robby's shoulder.

"Great," he says, faux cheerful. "That's great, doctor Langdon. What else?"

"Do you want to get in contact with my psychiatrist?" Langdon snaps, turning to stare at him. "She cleared me, in case you weren't aware. Feel free to discuss with her anything you want."

Robby looks at Abbot and he shrugs in response. Langdon feels oddly pleased at the interaction.

"Right," Robby mutters. He takes a long sip of his drink then runs a hand down his face. His hair is mussed at his forehead, a clump of strands sticking to his skin with sweat. "Okay. Do you remember the conditions I gave you?"

Langdon remembers the cold bite of the night breeze. Remembers the hopelessness overwhelming him, remembers feeling like he was drowning and grabbing at whatever he could to stabilize himself. Remembers what he said to Robby, what Robby said to him. He doesn't really remember the conditions. Something about peeing a lot.

"Yeah," he lies.

Robby nods and pinches the bridge of his nose before flattening his palms in front of him. "I'm not clearing you for work yet," he starts, 'yet' echoing in Langdon's ears, "because I don't think you're ready for that kind of environment."

Langdon opens his mouth to argue. "And," Robby quickly adds, "I'm not ready for you to come back." That shuts him up real quick. His jaw snaps shut with a snap, back molars aching slightly. He tries to school his face as much as possible. "I haven't reported you for the drug stealing or told anyone about it even though I should have. But you're a good doctor, Langdon, and there's enough of a shortage as it is. Do not make me regret that. Understood?"

"Yes," Langdon murmurs, "I understand."

Abbot's hand slides off his leg. Langdon keeps his gaze trained in front of him despite the worry eating at him. Abbot is smart; he'd told Langdon before that he was vaguely aware of what was going on with him and Robby, but having suspicions and actually knowing are two different things. There's a very real possibility Abbot is put off by the stealing, and from a hospital he runs, no less. He tells himself it's fine.

Langdon watches Robby glance at Abbot, eyebrows furrowing as he hesitates for a few moments. "How are you and Abby?" He asks eventually.

Abbot shifts to the left of him but Langdon just sighs. "Halfway through a divorce," he says, careful to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Nothing he can do about it now. "She knows everything," he adds pointedly.

Robby nods and takes another long sip of his tea, finishing it off with a big swallow. Langdon watches his neck as it jumps, tracks the movement of his Adam's apple. "Do you…" he stops, licks his lips before starting again. "I have a fully furnished guest bedroom with a lot of privacy if you need a place to stay."

The offer is unexpected and shocking. Langdon opens his mouth, doesn't know what to say, feels warmth spread in his chest instead. Abbot jumps in before he can find the words.

"He's been staying with me for a few weeks now," he says. "I've got it covered."

It's Robby's turn to be shocked. "Oh. Okay." He looks between the two of them a couple of times as Abbot's arm comes up to hang around Langdon's shoulders. "Okay," he says again, the line between his brows hardening. Then, after a few beats pass, "The plan is for you to come back to work at the PTMC, regardless of everything that's happened. What we need to discuss now is who will be supervising you."

The pleasantness Langdon had been feeling disappears, replaced by a wave of cold as the gap between him and Robby widens. "I won't be working under you?" He forces himself to ask.

Robby seems to have no problem throwing their friendship — relationship — history, whatever — away. "I don't think that's a good idea," he says, dashing any hope of reconciliation.

He thins his lips but says nothing, twitching when Abbot's cold fingers find the exposed skin of his neck.

Robby continues. "If you'd like to continue working the day shift, I'll have another attending look after you. Collins will probably have graduated from her residency by the time you return, and there's a new attending coming to work with us soon. Or," his eyes shift to Abbot, "you can work the night shift with Jack."

They're waiting for him to make a decision, Langdon realizes after a minute. He glances away from Robby and ignores the dig of Abbot's fingers on his muscle even as he works away the stiffness in his shoulder. The truth is he doesn't know. Having Robby's respect was glaringly conditional, and at times felt more like a noose around his neck than something to be proud of, but Langdon can't deny that he craves it. Chases his approval the same way a starving animal chases after their next meal. It feels like that sometimes, like Robby's approval is something Langdon needs to survive.

And Abbot…it would be unprofessional, to put it lightly. And he can't give Robby — or anyone else, for that matter — another reason to boot him out. He needs his job because he doesn't know who is without it.

"I don't know," he answers honestly.

Robby holds the empty mug in his hands, fingers squeezed tight around it. "That's alright," he says. "Something to think about before next time." He nods at Abbot and stands up.

Langdon leaves them to say their goodbyes, waiting outside the café while they talk and wishing endlessly for something he knows he can't have.

 

"You know," Abbot muses on the drive back, "you two have a lot in common."

Langdon scoffs and turns to look at him. His profile is back-lit by the streetlights, the planes of his face highlighted for a second before being submerged back into the darkness. There's a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips and Langdon doesn't need to see them to know amusement is dancing in his eyes. Abbot glances at him; he realizes he's staring.

He turns instead to look out of the windshield. "The only thing we have in common is you and medicine."

Abbot laughs, loud and unabashed. "That's a lot more in common than you think."

He says nothing and they drive on in silence. Langdon shifts in his seat and drums his fingers on his knee, restless. It's dark outside.

"How come you don't want to work under me?" Abbot asks as he stops the car at a red light.

Langdon doesn't respond immediately. He knows his answer — he doesn't know if he's ready for Abbot to know it too.

"Don't lie," he adds.

He flushes, feeling caught-out. Abbot waits for him to collect his thoughts. Hidden behind the shadow of a bridge, Langdon runs a finger along the inseam of his pants. The fabric drags against where the bruises Abbot keeps adding into his skin lay.

"I don't know if we could keep going," he whispers eventually, "and I don't want to stop."

Silence. For long enough that he starts regretting saying anything at all. He has no idea if Abbot actually wants to keep doing — whatever it is that they're doing, hooking up or fucking or using each other to blow off steam, which is why he hadn't wanted to say anything in the first place. He opens his mouth to take it all back.

"Good answer," Abbot finally says. "Real good answer. Wasn't expecting that. Don't worry, kid, I'll take care of you for as long as you need me to."

Langdon laughs around the heat lighting up his stomach, breathless and soft. He stops drumming his fingers, gets a hand on Abbot's thigh instead. "I'll take care of you too."

 

He gets shoved up against the door as soon as it closes behind him, a hand cushioning the small of his back at the last second. Abbot kisses him fiercely, teeth nipping at his lip and tugging. Langdon's breath catches in his throat.

They don't do this every day. Three times a week, at best. It's a way for both of them to relax, a way to shut up their minds and ease out the stresses of their lives. Nothing more. Still, it's therapeutic when Abbot laves at his skin, sucking dark bruises into the pale line of his throat with his tongue. Langdon has learned to expect the bite by now but the sting of his sharp teeth still makes him hiss, a familiar haze infiltrating his head at the pain. He tugs at Abbot's hair and pulls him up for another harsh kiss.

He tastes like the fruity drink he'd been nursing earlier and Langdon licks the flavor out of his mouth and into his own. Their hands are tangled into each other's clothes as they pull shirts out of pants and undo belts, tugging, tugging, tugging until Langdon has his hand shoved down Abbot's pants and Abbot's palming at the curve of his ass. He exhales shakily when he digs his nails in, skin still sensitive from when Abbot bent him over the bed and spanked him until he couldn't take it anymore.

"Fuck," Abbot hisses when Langdon swipes his thumb across the wet tip of his heavy dick, "you're perfect."

Bitterness churns in his gut but Langdon forces it down, focusing instead on the rough way Abbot palms his ass. They've done this enough times that Langdon's learned exactly how he likes getting jerked off; he pulls out everything he knows now, twisting his wrist at the upstroke and squeezing tight around the tip, glide slicked by the steady leak of precum. Abbot's vocal as he pants into his neck, swearing and biting down hard when he comes. Langdon milks him through it, listening to his shaky breaths before he's shoving his hand off when it gets too much. He lets his arm drop to his side.

Another kiss, this time on the fresh bruise under his jaw. Langdon barely gets to soak the sweetness in before he's getting tugged around and shoved forward, cheek smashed against the smooth door. He bites his lip to keep the groan from slipping out when Abbot pulls him open and licks into his ass, fucking his tongue inside a second later. His vision doubles as he fights to stay upright, electricity dancing in his veins. He barely lasts a minute before shooting off into his undone pants.

Abbot stands up a few moments later, and Langdon lets himself be tugged into a filthy kiss as they share the taste of him. They stay like that for a bit, exchanging kisses against the door until the drying come in his jeans becomes too uncomfortable to ignore.

Langdon pulls away and rests his forehead against the cool exterior of the front door. His mind is quiet again and he sighs happily.

 

He wakes up hours later to an empty bed, familiar now but no less disconcerting. Abbot hasn't stayed the night since the first time they did this and Langdon doesn't know how to tell him he wants him to. Anyway, it's probably better like this. He still has a divorce to settle, still has two kids he hasn't seen face to face in months, still has a drug addiction he isn't happy about being forced to confront. He can admit it now at least. Progress.

This is all to say: the sex doesn't fix anything. It helps — but it doesn't fix anything.

He takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly, rolling over onto his side. His lower back aches slightly but it's a dull pain, muted and easy to ignore now without all the movement of his job aggravating it. Abby sent him some programs for mobility exercises, told him to give it a chance. Might help, she'd said over FaceTime, her face grainy and small through the screen, keep the pain managed when you return to work.

When. She said it so confidently, like she had no doubts he'd return to work. Like her confidence in him has never wavered, even now, even after everything. Langdon misses her like a limb, hates himself for ruining their marriage. Hates himself more when he remembers how much lighter she's looked since their separation. He doesn't know how to be a man. Frank Langdon is thirty two years old but maybe he never grew up. Maybe he's still a boy. Maybe he doesn't know who the fuck he is or who he's supposed to be. His entire life, composed of mistakes and drenched in failure.

He closes his eyes, tries to breathe through the tightness in his chest, tries to breathe around the way his heart chokes him. He wants — Langdon shakes, hands curled into fists to stop the tremors — he wants to be able to not feel a thing. Wants to leave it all behind, wants to press pause and rewind, wants to fast forward to the end, wants to make it so none of it ever happened. Wants to gets his hands around his parents' throats and stop them from ever forcing him into this bullshit.

Langdon wants to leave everything behind, himself included.

 

Abbot works the night shift on Halloween, and Langdon goes trick-or-treating with his kids. He's shaking the entire time it takes him to get dressed, has to ask Abbot for help tying his shoes right before he's leaving. He nearly cries when Abbot bends down wordlessly to knot his laces, doubling it so they don't come undone. His fingers curl around Langdon's ankle before he stands up and pats his shoulder, then leaves.

Seeing his kids almost makes him forget why he ever wanted to run in the first place. It's a great evening and whatever Abby's been telling Tanner to curb his curiosity about why his father hasn't been with them is obviously working. Still, the way both Tanner and Hunter hang off his arm between the houses they visit makes him feel lighter than he has in — a while. It's an amazing day.

He's on a high when he drives back to Abbot's place, finally grabbing his car from his old place. Abby offers to let him stay the night and he almost says yes but the kids are already in tucked into bed, and Langdon doesn't want to let Abbot come home to an empty house. He knows what the night shift during Halloween means.

Abby hugs him before he leaves. The familiar warmth of her body against his almost breaks him. He doesn't let it show.

At seven thirty the next morning, Abbot comes through the front door. Langdon's making breakfast when he arrives, and he turns around to greet him when he stops. Stares a little, mouth dropped open.

He's brought company.

"Oh," Langdon says when he finally finds his voice. "I didn't — sorry." He doesn't know what he's apologizing for. It just feels like the right thing to do when he sees Robby.

"No," Abbot says, waving a hand in the air, Robby lagging behind him awkwardly, "I should be the one saying sorry. Should've let you know I was bringing —" He cuts himself off, smiles ruefully. "Well. You know."

Robby jerks his head in greeting, not looking him in the eye. Langdon notices because he's staring right into his face. "Langdon."

He puts down the spoon he'd been using to scramble the eggs. Lowers the heat on the stove. The coffee machine beeps in the corner.

"I'll get that," Abbot says, running into the kitchen. He passes Langdon as he goes, runs his hand down his arm, checking in quietly. Langdon brushes him off. Robby still doesn't look at him, walks into the living room to sit on the couch instead.

He can feel Abbot watching him moments before he opens his mouth. "You alright?" He asks.

"Yeah," Langdon lies. "Fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

He turns back to the eggs, finishes cooking them before transferring it into a plate. Adds in the sliced cherry tomatoes he'd prepared earlier, tops everything off with crumbled feta cheese. He walks the breakfast into the dining table and lets Abbot bring out the coffee.

Langdon doesn't return to the kitchen. He sits down and starts eating.

Fuck both of them, he thinks.

 

They're so comfortable with each other. He'd already known that, of course, he's known them both for years. Still, seeing it at the hospital or with a large group of people is different than seeing it when they think no one's watching. When it's just the two of them against the world.

Langdon sips at his coffee, winces when it burns his tongue.

Abbot snorts at something Robby says. Neither of them are smiling, really, but the tension they'd carried when they first walked in has melted a little. That's a good thing. He chews at the inside of his cheek until it bleeds.

"Langdon!" Abbot calls from the couch. "Are you good, man?"

He sighs under his breath and walks back to the living room. The couch is large enough to fit all three of them and some, and they're sitting far enough away from each other that Langdon could even fit himself between them if he wanted. He doesn't want to. He kind of wants to. He's going to throw up. He's got the insane urge to punch Robby right in his fuckass mouth.

Langdon sits on the couch opposite them, sipping his coffee again. It tastes like shit.

"So," he starts. Abbot looks right at him, Robby keeps his gaze trained somewhere between his feet. "Robby. What made you decide to take the night shift this time?"

It takes a moment for him to answer. Long enough that Langdon thinks he's going to ignore him, pretend to not have heard him. Then, just as the waiting starts to get too much for him, he says: "Didn't want Abbot to be alone on that type of shift."

"He wouldn't have been alone. He has Shen and Ellis."

"They're not me."

Langdon purses his lips. His lungs rattle in his chest. "Right," he says.

"And, God, what a fucking shift," Abbot groans. He throws his head back, eyes squeezed shut. Robby puts his hand on his knee in a some semblance of comfort. Abbot wraps his fingers around his wrist, keeping him there.

He would really love to punch Robby in the mouth.

Abbot opens his eyes suddenly, immediately finding Langdon with sincerity written all over his face. "Don't ever work a holiday, Langdon, seriously. Avoid them as much as you can."

The implication is awkward. He glances at Robby, who is looking at him this time. "Right," he says again.

He keeps going, seemingly doesn't sense the tension rising in the air. Langdon feels Robby's gaze on him like a hot brand. "The shit you see is horrific. Way worse than a regular shift. You gotta spare yourself the trauma, man, you're too young for that kind of nightmare."

"Oh," he says, "I don't know. I've seen a lot." Been through it, too. Is living a nightmare right now — has been for the past two months and a half. Longer, if he's being honest, and he rarely ever is.

"You're a good kid," Abbot continues. "Good, sweet kid." He closes his eyes, leans his head back again. Robby still has a hand on his knee, Abbot still holds onto him. "Too much, almost."

Langdon is a lot of things: a liar, an addict, someone quick to anger; enjoys lashing out in the moment and regrets it afterwards. But he isn't an idiot. He knows what's going on. And he hates himself for it. He's also definitely not good or sweet.

He blinks, holding his eyes closed for a moment too long. Will there ever be a day where he can look in the mirror and be proud of who he sees? He opens his eyes, finds Robby staring right at him. Eyes big and sincere and so, so hurt, betrayal and anger and disappointment written all over him, directed all at Langdon.

Probably not, then.

 

They're talking in quiet, hushed voices when he rounds the corner to rejoin them. Robby flattens his mouth and glances away. Abbot smiles, pretends they weren't talking about him. Why else would they cut themselves off so immediately? Langdon sniffs, sits down and feigns ignorance. Whatever. They can talk about him all they want. It'll hardly change a thing.

Robby gets up from the couch and places his empty mug on the coffee table in front of him. "Well," he starts, sighing quietly. "I should probably head home."

Fucking finally.

"You sure you don't want to stay?" Abbot chimes in, and Langdon smiles when they both glance at him, tries to act like he means it.

"It's fine, Jack," Robby says. His shoulders are drawn in and he's slumped more than usual. Whatever they saw last night was undoubtedly intense and, for a brief moment, Langdon does want him to stay. Here, in Abbot's home, all three of them under the same roof and all three of them seeking comfort in each other. The thought hits him like a train. "I'll see you later — both of you. It's…nice to see you, Langdon. You look better."

He's almost certain that's a lie; he's seen himself in the mirror. The bags under his eyes are more prominent now, his already pale skin even paler. He's shedding so much weight and doesn't have the appetite to keep up with it, feels weaker and gets tried faster. He hardly does more than sleep and eat, every passing day a waste.

Still, the resentment — and that's what this is, resentment to the man who used to be his foundation — gives way to something else, something softer, something he recognizes but refuses to put a name to.

"Thanks," he says to Robby and this time he does mean it when he smiles.

He nods again and makes his way to the door. Abbot follows him, and after a second's worth of hesitation, Langdon too.

It's cold out this early in the morning, chilly but bearable, especially with the sun beaming down on them. The sky is clear and blue and the trees are only just overturning the color of their leaves. The calmness of the morning somehow feels both out of place and fitting.

Robby climbs into his car, waves one last goodbye before pulling out of the driveway and into the street. They stand there watching him even once he's out of sight. Langdon wraps his arms around himself, shivers slightly.

"How would you do it?" Abbot asks eventually, voice quiet, like he doesn't really want to be heard.

Langdon blinks, shoves his hands underneath his armpits. "Do what?"

"Kill yourself."

A breeze washes over them and Langdon is brought back to that private moment between them all those years ago, right outside the PTMC, sitting together on a small bench in the dead of the night. He closes his eyes now, lets out a long breath and tries to soak in the warmth where sunlight hits his skin. Opens his eyes after a few moments.

Abbot isn't looking at him, eyes trained to the front. Langdon lets himself stare for a little while, memorizes the freckles on his cheeks and the softened lines around his eyes, the mussed up curls of his greying hair before following his lead. He turns to look out at the street and drops his hands, lets his knuckles brush against Abbot's. Both their hands are cold.

"Overdose," he finally says. "Take as many pills as I can get my hands on and wash it all down with bottles of vodka. Want to be completely under when I go."

"So it's peaceful?" Abbot asks.

"No," Langdon responds slowly, "because I miss the way they made me feel."

The rest goes unsaid but he knows Abbot hears it anyway.

"I wouldn't do it on the roof," Abbot says after a long time. "Don't want to spend my life and death in that place. Plus I can't force everyone else to go through that, see me like that."

Okay, Langdon thinks, good to know. His time spent on the roof means he hasn't reached the end of the rope quite yet. It's reassuring in its own special, twisted way.

"So where would you go?" He asks.

Abbot shrugs. He hasn't looked at Langdon once during this entire conversation. He tries not to let it get to him. "Anywhere. Who knows? Just not the PTMC."

"But you'd still jump?"

"Yeah," he says, "I'd still jump."

He looks at him, finally, looks at him with such an open expression that Langdon's teeth ache. The time he's spent with Abbot has allowed him to understand him on a level he was incapable of before, and he knows now how similar the two of them really are. Langdon thinks, staring into the green eyes he's become so familiar with, the same green eyes that have pulled him away from his grief and replaced the cold with uncontested warmth, that maybe he can be that for him, too. Can be there for him the way Abbot has been for months.

"Come on," Langdon whispers quietly, "let's go inside."

 

Abbot's always reminding him he's allowed to touch him, but Langdon hasn't had the confidence to do so. Until now. And it's not confidence that pushes him to do it, not really. It's something much closer to desperation and his hands are shaking when he presses Abbot into the soft sheets. His bed. His bed, not Langdon's. It's first time he's stepped foot in Abbot's bedroom, first time he's ever seen what it looks like.

He doesn't give himself a chance to look around in spite of his idle interest, too focused instead on the way Abbot responds to his touch. He's quiet under him, pliant and malleable when Langdon connects their mouths in a slow kiss. The arousal in his veins is not urgent but it's definitely getting there, slow and sure. Abbot parts his lips and tries to take control of the kiss. Langdon decides to give it to him.

He pulls away after a moment, dodges Abbot when he chases after him. "It's always Robby in the end," he says quietly.

Abbot blinks, sits up on the bed. His brow furrows. "What?"

"Robby," Langdon repeats, knows in the back of his head this is the worst time to bring it up, can't seem to stop himself anyway. "It's always him." It isn't a question.

Abbot looks him in the eyes as the wrinkle between his eyebrows deepens. "Where is this coming from?" He asks. Not 'What are you talking about?' or even 'That's not true' because they both know it would be stupid of them to pretend.

Langdon goes back for a kiss. Abbot doesn't reciprocate this time but doesn't pull away either, lets him mouth against him until he has his fill.

"Why are you bringing this up now?" He says once Langdon leans back, satisfied.

"When else am I supposed to?"

Abbot sighs. He drops from his elbows down to his back, throwing an arm over his eyes. "Fucking hell, you guys are so —" He stops. Doesn't continue.

"So what?"

"Similar," he spits out. "Like you're the same fucking person."

Langdon fights against his initial reaction to disagree, to bite back, holds his tongue and thinks of how to say his next point without compromising himself. It takes a while, and the silence that falls over them in the meantime is heavy. Abbot keeps his face hidden in his arm.

"You've always had Robby," he starts slowly after a couple of moments, too much thought put behind every word, "and you'll always have him."

"What are you —"

"I won't always have him."

Abbot takes his arm off his face. Finds Langdon's eyes and stares deeply into them. After a brief pauses, he asks: "Do you always…do you want him?"

He can feel the flush crawl up his ears and cheeks but doesn't let it deter him. "It's always Robby," he says again. "Always."

Abbot watches him for a while. His eyes don't really leave his face but still Langdon feels stripped bare, like he's seeing right through him, like he's pulling away the layers of skin and bone to get to his heart, trying to find out what the rhythm of it means.

"I don't want to fuck you," Abbot says eventually. "I don't want to — this isn't just about fucking. To me. Are you listening, Frank?"

Langdon shivers, feels the words wash over him in a wave. "I'm listening," he whispers. Then: "You're not really fucking me, though."

He curls an eyebrow. "No?"

Embarrassment pools in his chest. Langdon breathes around it, shrugging. "We haven't actually fucked, have we?"

He watches Abbot take in his words, can pinpoint the exact moment he understands what he's really saying. "No, I guess not." He pushes himself onto his elbows and reaches out for him. "Come here, Frank."

Langdon crawls to him, drapes himself over Abbot and lets himself be pulled down into a wet kiss. It's filthier than the first one; this time it's all tongue licking over teeth and sucking and biting and pulling, like Abbot is trying to devour him. Like Abbot is trying to merge them together through just their lips. The unbridled want makes him shake with desire and he claws at Abbot, trying to get him to speed up.

"It's not always Robby," Abbot says through heavy pants and in between kisses. "It's not always just about him."

"Then who's it about?" Langdon whispers against his mouth.

He doesn't respond immediately. His lips drag down Langdon's jaw, sucking lightly against his stubble before biting down gently. "You," he pants. "It's always you." Abbot pulls him into another kiss before rolling them over and climbing on top of him.

Langdon never gets a chance to respond but he saves the conversation and puts it on the back burner for later. They'll talk about this, and talk seriously, because Langdon has fallen into something he doesn't know how to get out of and he needs to know Abbot is right there with him.

What's the point, otherwise?

Abbot never stops pressing kisses into his skin even as he pulls off their clothes and tosses them aside. He's feverish, almost, unable to keep his hands off him for even a second. The unbroken attention makes Langdon ache and he lets his hips jump up once his dick is freed, hopes Abbot will the hint.

He doesn't.

Abbot purposely ignores it and drags his teeth down the inside of his leg instead, darkening up the bruises that are just starting to fade. Langdon shifts as pain lights up his nerves but Abbot doesn't keep him down this time, lets him squirm around on the sheets and continues to bite new marks onto him. It's so blatantly possessive that he nearly comes just from that.

"You want me to fuck you?" Abbot asks, sucking bruises onto his abdomen. "Want me inside?"

Langdon sighs and throws his head back, legs spreading to make room for Abbot. "Yes," he says, already feeling desperate. They've been hooking up for what feels like forever, and it took a while for Langdon to come to terms with the realization that he hated the idea of Abbot also hooking up with someone else, and he still doesn't know if they're meant to be exclusive or not but this makes it so Abbot belongs to him a little bit more. Not completely, because he belongs to Robby first. This is a fact they both know.

He takes his time preparing Langdon, fucks two fingers into him and spends a while scissoring him open as he focuses on other parts of his body; his nipples, tugged and twisted and bit until they're aching and raw; his biceps, open-mouth kisses all over the underside of his arms; his ass, until he's loose and dripping wet and so desperate he's going to burst.

It's only when Langdon starts to cry that Abbot finally pulls his fingers free. He kisses his eyelids, sweetly licking away the tears that have escaped before slowly, so slowly pushing inside him. The head of his dick pauses at the rim of his hole but he's been fucked so thoroughly on Abbot's fingers that it barely takes any force at all before he's finally breaching him open.

Abbot's dick is big and thick. Langdon feels it now as he keeps pushing in and in, every inch of him splitting him wide open right down the middle. This time, Langdon can't stop the moan from falling past his lips.

He doesn't stop until he's burrowed all the way in, their hips flush to each other. Abbot kisses him before pulling back and slamming in again, hard enough that Langdon jolts up the bed. He does it again, and again, and again, not giving Langdon any time to adjust to the intrusion. His mind goes quiet, the only thing worth focusing on the burn of the stretch; it's a delicious kind of pain and Langdon knows for certain he won't ever let this go. This is the two of them coming together and becoming whole, this is Langdon finally having control over his life again.

This is Langdon's redemption.

Abbot brackets his arms around his head as he slams into him, and Langdon can barely do anything other than hang on. He claws down his back, scratching at skin with dull nails as endless moans are punched out of him. He can't control his noises and the pleasure coursing through his body is overwhelming in the best possible way. His dick aches between their bodies, and with every other thrust it drags against their stomachs.

Abbot's leaning down into his ear, whispering words Langdon can't focus enough to hear. His entire body is focused on the feeling of Abbot spearing him open, on the way Abbot clutches him impossibly closer, on the understanding that this is their confirmation. Langdon, so far gone down a path of betrayal, and Abbot, following him without hesitation.

He doesn't even realize he's about to come until he's already there, gasping as his orgasm explodes out of him. His vision whites out for a solid couple of seconds and his whole body shakes with its intensity, muscles pulled as tight as they'll go. He slumps back into the mattress once he's finally wrung out, Abbot slowly grinding inside him.

"Come on," Langdon rasps, wrapping his arms back around his neck and pulling him into his chest. "Come on, don't stop."

He can feel Abbot shiver, his dick twitching where he's still pressed up against his prostate before carefully pulling out and slamming back in. He sets up a new rhythm, one slower than the first one, careful not to push Langdon into an uncomfortable state of overstimulated.

Like this, it's still good, and he shakes with the combination of the aftershocks of his orgasm and the steady, almost mechanical way Abbot fucks into him. He can feel how Abbot throbs inside him, knows he's close, and it's only then that Langdon realizes neither of them even thought about using a condom. Still, he strokes his hands down the length of Abbot's back, feeling up the muscles indulgently until Abbot groans and sinks his teeth into the side of his neck, finally pushed over the edge.

They stay plastered to each other for a while, breathing each other's exhales. Langdon's body twitches randomly and his legs have started going numb but this is the most comfortable he's been in a while. He only brings his arms back to his side when Abbot shifts backwards.

"Frank," he says, voice rough, "you're fucking perfect."

Langdon grins, warmth blooming in his chest and spreading throughout his body. He pulls Abbot down for another kiss, this one different from every other one they've shared.

Everything is different. Not much has changed. But he knows life won't be like this forever.

Notes:

he story mainly revolves around abbot/langdon but robby haunts the narrative and is the heart of their dynamic. there ARE feelings involved with all of them but since i didnt want to jst jam them all together for a happy ending that didnt feel right to me, i didnt. still tagged as ot3 bc, like i said, this story is centered around all three of them at the end of the day.

tumblr if you wanna hang out <3
also a twt if thats more ur thing