Chapter Text
It runs off his hands in nauseating swirls down the drain. It’s a stark difference against the ceramic of the sink, brightened by the fluorescent lights hanging above. Frank scrubs harder, soap all the way up to his elbows. His gloves are tossed into the trashcan to his side, blue latex smeared in red.
The blood is everywhere.
It’s caked into the splits of his cuticles, stuck deep under the nails of his fingers. Frank’s scrubs are covered in it. He hasn’t even made it to the disposal, cutting off immediately to the bathroom of the ED instead, ignoring the calls and beeps ringing in his ears.
Frank can’t stand the sight of the reflection in the mirror, keeping his gaze locked onto a spot in the sink where the blood hadn’t reached. Even after years in med-school, finishing up four years of residency, his body still trembles at the sight of it, one so accustomed to his everyday life, no chance of escaping it, and yet, the blood still flashes behind his eyelids like a nightmare.
It was his first day back, first day after ten shitty months of drug tests, therapy meetings, nights of scrounging for breath under the visceral pain in his back; one thing after another. His last shift was from another hell, an MCI the same night a fresh intern, out of everyone else, was able to see past his jokes and temper and notice his problem.
Problem.
A simple word for a million crises compacted into one human.
And today, a water slide incident on a holiday. His luck was almost laughable. Almost. Only three doors from the men's bathroom was North Six, where a five year old boy was laid across a gurney, a chunk of metal protruding two centimeters left of his heart. The room choice was a testament to the shit hole PTMC fell into. Frank was pulled into the room immediately by the sight of a child, not even having the time to dress for PPE before he was applying pressure around the wound, Santos stuffing sterile pads along the base to immobilize. Perlah was the one to press the gloves to his chest when Robby had ordered to intubate, sharp and clear.
There was still blood splattered across his cheek when the kid coughed it up during intubation. There were still aching twinges in his hands as he switched to aggressive suctioning, gripping the tubing between his fingers. The amount of blood that had come up made him tremble for a split second, before he shoved it down, focusing on the task.
Al-Hashimi and Whitaker floated around him, calling orders of EPI and fentanyl while Robby continued applying CPR. Santos had stuck by his side, calling out changes in vital signs, but the oxygen was dipping too low and the blood in the child's lungs was filling too fast.
Frank vaguely remembers Robby shoving him aside, replacing the suction tube with another attempt at intubation. They couldn't flip on the side for a better airway with the obstruction in his chest. The sounds of the monitors screaming in alarm echoed in his head, as BP began crashing, as the blood seeped through the bandages, as the child went asystole.
The events after were foggy.
He’s been training for this all his life. He knew the statistics going into emergency medicine; how traumas included children on the brink of death. Children the same ages as his kids, dying in his care. In his six years of working at a hospital, he’s had four-hundred-sixty-nine people die. Out of those, two-hundred-eighty-five were children. Thirty-two in cases he’s lead.
Today, it’s four-hundred-seventy-one and counting. Two-hundred-eighty-six and counting.
Frank sucks in an ugly noise before he could let it out, crouching down to the floor, his hands still positioned over the sink as he hangs his head. His back is screaming at him for the position, but Frank’s knees were going to give out on him if he attempted to stand up again. The rushing water of the sink covers his cries and shaky breaths, as Frank tries to wait out the pain in his chest.
A week ago, Frank took his kids to the waterpark. It was Tanner, Penny, and his once-a-week hangout without necessary supervision from Abby- one of her requirements since he’s been out of rehab. He hated the word hangout, as if he was describing the only times he got to spend with his own children as a playdate between two friends.
If he had taken them today, if Dana hadn’t called with an extra shift for him, he could’ve been the reason his kids got hurt. Instead of the young boy he just called time of death for, it could’ve been Tanner. One of the kids hurt and drowning in a pool could’ve been Penny. He could’ve been that man on that gurney, finger ripped from a wedding ring he still wears for no reason, with no idea of where his children were.
“Fuck,” Frank groans into himself, getting up slowly once the pain in his back spiked again.
In the mirror, he looked and felt like a disheveled sunken man, with too big bags under his eyes and too much baggage on his shoulders.
There’s a knock on the door as Frank’s scrubbing at his cheek, a jolt running through him as he imagines someone walking into the mess he is. But he knows who it is. If it were anybody else, they’d walk right in. It’s a multi-stall bathroom; Frank didn’t own it. But Robby waits for him to answer.
Frank stares at the door instead, a chilling flush of heat rushing through his body as he knows Robby is on the other side. The same man who ignored him for the first half of his shift, sent him off to exile in triage, and who told him he didn’t want Frank working in his ER anymore. Frank was too tired to defend himself, to apologize, to fight back.
His pupils are dilated. Sweat tickles at his forehead. His breathing is quickened and his face is flushed. It's a textbook definition of drug use, of withdrawal. Would Robby accuse him the second he saw him? Would Robby put his biases aside and not look at Frank with disgust for the first time today? Would he stick his head in through the door, take one look at him, and decide he had better things to do?
Frank must have made a noise because Robby enters soundlessly. Even the cacophony of the ED muddles out in his brain as Frank tracks Robby’s movements, treading lightly. All he hears is his own heartbeat, loud and obnoxious in his chest like it was calling for Robby’s attention. He knows he doesn’t deserve it anymore, and it was only luck that he managed to get a shift before the sabbatical, no matter how hard Robby tried to avoid him all together in the first place.
Finally, Robby speaks, piercing through the windstorm. “What are you doing here?”
Disappointment floods Frank’s chest.
“Princess has patients you need to pick up,” Robby continues, his eyes glossing over the blood still in the sink and on Frank’s cheek. “Hurry with what you’re doing or you can head back to triage if you want to waste time.”
Frank sucks in an imperceptible deep breath, rinsing his hands. A minute ago, he was weary to talk back to Robby, knowing all too well his career was on the line. He’s placed on too many restrictions with the hospital, not even being able to prescribe any opioids without an attending signing off on it. He wasn’t eager to get on the further side of Robby’s bad side if he could help it.
But looking at Robby through the mirror, knowing the man blamed him for Louie’s death, hated him for his weakness, and his lies, Frank couldn’t hold himself back..
“Do you have benzos in your pocket?” Frank rasps, watching Robby’s eyes flicker strangely.
“Excuse me?”
Frank repeats himself, using the last bit of soap to scrub off a stubborn piece of dried blood. “I asked if you had benzos in your pocket."
Robby starts forward, stopping when Frank pulls away from the sink, letting his hands drip water onto the floor as he backs up, away from Robby before the man can reach him. “What the fuck is that suppo-”
“You seemed comfortable giving Louie that beer can,” Frank clarifies, seeing the way Robby’s brows furrow angrily. “You came into Louie’s room when he was coding with a beer. Got any pills to tide me over?”
A rough laugh escapes Robby, reminiscent of the same one he gave to Mohan, right before he tossed her to the side like he did to him. “Don’t fucking- don’t you dare.”
“Don't I, what? What’s the difference between me and him? Why is Louie so easy to forgive, and you can’t even stand to look me in the eye?”
Every shroud of therapy escapes Frank’s mind. His sponsor told him repeatedly that taking those steps had to come from a place of accountability and of meaning. What good would it do if he tore down all the bridges he’s been trying to fix?
But what good would it do if he spent the rest of his life chasing something that wasn’t there?
Robby shakes his head, eyes darkening. “Don’t act like it’s the same between you two. You are a doctor, Langdon,” he spits out Frank’s last name, unfamiliar to his ears. “You swore an oath to protect your patients. You destroyed that the minute you stole a pill.”
“Then why didn’t you report me? Why’d you make me do it? You would’ve gotten your wish and gotten me fired if you did it instead.”
“Are you seriously asking me this?” Robby grits. “Right here, right now?” At Frank’s stare, Robby shakes his head again, hands splayed in anger. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I vouched for you! And you still have the nerve to feel sorry for yourself?”
Robby’s voice is erratically rising, probably loud enough to pierce through the thin door of the bathroom.
“You think this is me feeling sorry for myself?” Frank retorts. His hands are still sticky with residue when he squeezes them into fists, no matter how hard he scrubbed. “I know I was wrong. I’m not asking for your forgiveness. I’m asking why it's conditional. I’ve done the work, Robby. I went to rehab, I went to therapy, I go to fucking NA meetings three times a week just so I could work here! But it’s still not enough for you to look me in the eyes and tolerate me in the same fucking trauma room!”
The other man swipes a heavy hand over his face, his palm shaking as he does so. “I… I don’t have time for this, Langdon.”
Langdon. Again.
Frank is struck still for a moment, the anger that swarmed his body seeping out in bouts, leaving him exhausted and reeling. When Robby huffs out a sigh and turns heavily to the door, Frank startles to action.
“Wait, wait! Just- please,” he says, nothing short of begging, grasping a loose hand around Robby’s upper arm before releasing just as quickly. “I’m sorry, I’m- please. I’m trying.”
Robby stares at their hands, Frank’s still extended out to him, but fingers curled inward. Frank can see the subtle tick of Robby’s jaw, revealing something ugly. “That’s not good enough for me.”
This job will fuck you up if you let. You let it.
“I was sick,” Frank whispers. It echoes loudly enough in the quiet bathroom. “I needed help.”
“Then why didn’t you come to me for it?”
Frank feels the floor crack under his feet. In his head, he could still feel the ambulance bay lights hanging over their faces, perfectly illuminating Robby’s face like a Broadway spotlight. Under the anger and frustration, the hurt was raw.
It was his fault. He’s made passing comments about his back hidden in jokes. Robby even called him a grandpa once. He could’ve gone to Robby properly, could’ve begged him for a new doctor once Hagan stopped listening to him. There were a million things he could’ve done. And he did none of them.
An ugly need to deflect overtakes him when nausea runs rampant. “I’ve seen the way you look at sick people. Addicts. You didn’t look at me like that. You looked at me like I was beyond help.”
“Can you blame me?” Robby bites back. “You fucked up, Langdon. You put your patients in harm's way. You lied to me for god knows how long. And you think,” he steps forward, crowding Frank against the side of a stall and the row of sinks, “you think you can simply stand there and say you’re sorry and pretend that’s enough? So, no. You’re not Louie. You’re not like every other addict that ended up here.
“I stuck my neck out for you to the board. I signed off on your return here because you got the help that you needed. You can think you've changed, fine. But Jesus Christ, Langdon, don’t pretend for one single second it erases everything that happened before.”
Frank stands still, shoulders practically hiked up to his ears as Robby seethes in front of him, an image of exhaustive and manic wrath in his eyes. The nausea returns with swelling force, but he holds it in, keeping his breathing steady and ignoring the shaking of his hands at his sides. Robby backs off of him, throwing one last look at the sink and then back to his face, one look on his own face that Frank can only describe as disgust.
“If you can't handle this anymore, you need to go home. Like I said before, I don't need the fucking liability.” Robby sinks in with the rest of the ED, leaving with a slammed shut door.
Frank sags, the pulsing ache in his back returning after being so stiff with too many fuckings things rattling around in his brain. He releases a breath that hitches halfway through, and stumbles to the nearest stall, vomiting into the toilet.
Contrary to popular belief- or the nagging thoughts of Frank’s head, everyone else seems to welcome him back with open arms. Though, ‘opened arms’ may be a bit of an exaggeration, but frankly, he’ll take what he can get. Well, except for Santos, which he expected.
When Frank stumbles out of the bathroom, Robby is nowhere to be seen. Dana is the first one to spot him, and he reluctantly follows her gestures to come by the nursing station. He doesn’t want to say he’s dragging his feet, but… he’s not necessarily eager to get chided out by another superior. Frank comes to a slow stop just before the counter top, tucking his hands into the depths of his pockets, his fingers grazing the scissors he keeps there, before putting on his best face: a lopsided grimace.
Dana peers at him through her glasses, a clipboard in hand. Her mouth is downturned, like she somehow finds the time to feel empathic toward him in the downward spiraling shitshow the ED has turned into. “Something happen in there that I need to know about?” She asks, voice low but still laced with concern.
Frank stills for a moment before he shakes his head. “It was nothing.”
“You lying to me, kid?”
“Won’t you believe me anyway?” He offers through the lump in his throat.
Dana lets out a small laugh, something familiar that Frank sorely missed. “Probably not. I can’t exactly keep Robby on a leash, but,” she tilts her head to capture eye contact before continuing, “don’t take anything he says to heart. He’s having a… rough day, is all.”
Frank looks at his shoes, red liquid caked on top like dried clay. His toes feel gross. “Robby means everything to me, Dana. How can I not?” He whispers back, blue eyes cloudy. Regretting the words instantly when Dana freezes slightly, Frank shakes his head, his lopsided smile back on his face. “I’m sorry, it’s- it’s my problem to deal with. I just want to…”
His eyes flick towards North Six a few ways away, watching Perlah flutter around in the quiet room, shutting off the monitors and tossing pads. Dana follows. She sighs.
“Take a minute, Frank,” Dana says, reaching over with a soft hand to place it a few spaces away from his arm. He doesn’t take his hand out to follow through. “You tried.”
That’s not good enough for me.
Frank only nods, the lump sinking to his chest, crushing his lungs underneath its weight.
Dana is pulled away from him by McKay, which he takes as reprieve. He should be going back to triage, as per Robby’s order, but it seems that Mohan has taken the mantle again. He should be changing out of his scrubs at least, but snaking through the floor to get to the dispenser and running the chance of bumping into Robby while he looked like a sick dog was too much of a risk for him.
So, bypassing a trauma room filled with Joy, Whitaker, and Al-Hashimi, Frank ducks his head into North Six, only stopping in the doorway when his eyes land on the sight of the child. Perlah is still there, but there must be something in his eyes that betrays his feelings, because she bows out, staring at the floor as she passes to leave.
He stalks forwards with wooden legs, sinking into a rolling stool that's tucked by the EKG machine. Frank’s hands flex in his lap, stiff and cold like he was dead too. A shiver trills down his spine, enough for his shoulders to visibly shake, reminding Frank that he was still functioning. However crappy.
“Fuck,” he whispers for the second time.
His sight blurs as he stares at the gurney, the white sheet Perlah placed on the boy while she set to clean up was stained in the corner. The ends of his fingers peek out from one of the edges, blue and rigid where they lay haphazardly. He recalls the brown tufts of hair sprouting from the boy's head, soft like Tanner’s. There’s a dent of the fabric that raises drastically over his chest, the object still there, quickly reminding Frank of the way blood had bubbled around it.
His stomach lurched. He can’t stay here.
“What are you doing here?”
Frank freezes, spine chilling at the thought of Robby catching him again. But it’s not Robby this time. It’s Santos.
Santos, for the better part of the past six hours has been absent from his sight. Not that he blames her; in fact he was positive she’s been actively evading him and ducking out of every situation that may land in them being in the same room together. The patient in front of them was the first time she’s been in his proximity for more than three seconds.
Ducking his head, he sees her come up in his periphery, stopping just short at the end of the gurney.
“I’m just…” he begins to explain, keeping his eyes locked on the child.
“You have a son, right,” Santos interrupts, voice bored but inquiring anyway.
Frank’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second, stealing a look at Santos, but she’s looking at the child too. “Y-yeah. Tanner. He’s five. Penny is three, now.”
She doesn’t elaborate, just continues shuffling her feet in a way that frays the edges of his nerves. He could already hear the chewing out he’s going to get in a second, steeling himself for the inevitability.
But it doesn’t come.
They stay in the room for far longer than they should, lest they want Robby going on a witch hunt for them, even if it is just to make sure they weren’t killing each other. Frank can’t discern why Santos was here. Frank Langdon, of all people, does not need pity or- or kindness or-
He tries to shake off the nerves in his stomach, the stiffness in his joints before his back could lock up, and pushes back a loose strand of hair that had begun to poke him in the eye.
Santos’ gaze locks onto his jittering leg, and he bites back the urge to snap at her. Instead, he presses a fist against his knee, stopping the movement before it could spike and send him tumbling down. Frank’s tongue peaks out to smooth against his dry lips, before rising slowly.
“I should probably-”
Santos interrupts before he could continue. “I’m not sorry I turned you in.”
Fuck. He did not want to go through this right now. “I-I know.”
“I’m sorry for what happened to you,” she says like she didn’t hear him. “But I’m not sorry for what led to you getting help. You needed it and, sorry to say,” Santos laughs dryly, “but you weren’t going to take that jump yourself.”
Frank takes a seat dully, stomach curdling as he watches Santos fidget her way through a conversation clearly neither of them wanted to participate in.
“You could’ve killed someone. You were lucky you hadn’t.”
“Doctor Santos, I-” he hates the way his voice cracks, volume less than a whisper. He doesn’t deserve to fall apart from his mistakes, especially not in front of her.
Santos shakes her head, crossing her arms where her nail begins to dig into the soft flesh of her forearm. “The day after you left, I got a case. Five year-old child got into his dad’s medicine cabinet and overdosed on librium. The Universe is a fucking bitch,” her laugh still sour as Frank’s breathing dips.
“Did he…” Frank can’t bear to finish his sentence.
Thankfully, Santos huffs in relief. “No. Guess we got lucky, too.”
A stretch of silence consumes them as Frank reels, trying not to imagine Tanner again, except instead of a shard of metal in his small body, he’s strewn across a gurney with a flatline echoing above, overdosing on his father’s pills.
A different urge to vomit again presses against his throat, but Frank focuses his energy on picking at his right thumb’s nail. The skin is sore and rubbed raw from hours of scratches, a thin piece of skin barely hanging on. His PHP’ ordered therapist- a classic suit and tie, grey haired and sullen man named Arthur- badgered him often enough about his new habit, but Frank rolled his eyes and stated it was better than the alternative. Arthur didn’t seem to find the humor in his jokes, but Frank wasn’t at the liberty to request another therapist.
Arthur spent the three-hours-a-week sessions nailing what Frank tried not to think about. The Twelve Steps- two words he’s heard too much in one lifetime- made his skin tighten in trepidation. His first attempt at apologizing to Robby had been piss poor, and while he’d be glad to get it done with and not see the man for three months after, he’d have to bite the bullet eventually. Dana’s had been a little easier, even though Frank knew she had bigger problems to deal with and probably only comforted him enough to get him to leave her alone. Mel was one he needed to apologize to, a visceral need to make sure she doesn’t see what Frank sees in the mirror everyday; an addict who got second chances he didn’t deserve. And then there was Santos.
Other than thinking about his failed marriage, his ‘breakup’ with Robby, and the disappointment he was to his children, the events that happened with Santos was one Frank thought of a lot. Once upon a time, Frank believed he could get a fellowship in medical education, and the first chance he got, he screwed up.
Sure, at the time he’d been going through withdrawal and was paranoid that a fresh intern found him out when no one else did, but what happened with Santos is something that shouldn’t have happened at all. He’d berated her, needlessly, and didn’t take the time to teach and lead her properly. Frank couldn’t imagine how he would’ve felt if Robby acted the way he did the first time they met.
Frank wipes his sweaty palms on the pants of his scrubs, tucking his hands under his thighs after to keep from shaking. “S-Santos.”
The woman twitches, before quickly glancing at him.
“I should’ve- I should’ve said this the minute I saw you today, but- I have to-”
“Doctor Langdon? Doctor Santos?” A small voice interrupts from the entrance of the trauma room.
They both turn, Frank flushed red and Santos’ jaw tightened, noticing the way Emma shuffled her way in. Dana is right behind her, a cart trailing in her hands. Eyeing the packages stacked up on the cart, Frank lowers his eyes, and wishes he were anywhere else in the world.
Usually, when the nurses finally came around to clean up the body, Frank was long gone onto the next case. He tries not to get caught up in the aftermath. Now, it’s all he can focus on.
He thinks of the child’s parents, who have no idea that their son is dead, covered by a thin sheet in a cold room of the emergency department. They don’t know that their son is dead.
He tries not to think of Tanner again, about what he would do if he ever received a phone call like that. Frank thinks he would die on the spot, selfish in a way he always was, leaving Penny behind on her own. It’s a recurring thought he’s had since he was an MS4, when Abby was first pregnant with their son, about how if one day instead of a stranger on a gurney rolled in by the paramedics, it’s his family. Penny or Tanner or Abby or all of them at once. He would freeze, follow Robby to a trauma room, stare blankly at the monitors. Feel Dana’s or Perlah’s or Princess’ hands push him out of the room as his coworkers worked on his loved ones. He would see the blood pouring out or bruises blooming on skin, hear the flatline beep before Robby would call time of death, his voice low and eyes stuck on Frank behind the glass. He would push his way past the others, climb his way up the gurney, hold them close and then sleep forever.
A light tap brushes on his shoulder before withdrawing, and when Frank refocuses, Dana is staring down at him, eyes round in concern. He jerks up, noticing Santos’ and Emma’s stare before he tucks his hands in his scrubs pockets. His voice is steady despite everything, “Have we found the family yet?”
Emma answers for Dana when she doesn’t relinquish her gaze, “Yes. I asked the guardian for his parents’ contact. We haven’t called yet.” She raises a phone in her hands. The company the boy had at the waterpark were also at the hospital, three friends and a father of one of the boys.
Frank sighs, moving past Dana to take it from her. “Doctor Robby is the primary, but he…” He trails off, unable to finish. Robby is in the other room, arms crossed and head tilted down at Whitaker, who was intubating a patient.
Once upon a time, he was on the other side of that look. Never pure admiration or pride, but a soft tilt of his head, body loose and free, the squint of Robby's eyes when a smile peeked out the edge of his mouth. Frank sincerely doubts he'll ever get that look again.
Emma has already placed the number in, but his finger hovers over the button. His cheeks flame when the other three inhabitants in the room continue to stare at him, but his mouth has gone dry and if Frank’s vision wasn’t steadily fogging up, he’d notice his hand was shaking again.
One moment: the phone is clutched tight between his fingers. The next: he’s sitting on a stool, the back of Dana’s hand is pressed to his forehead, and Santos is talking softly into the phone.
“-with us?”
“Doctor Langdon, are you okay?” Emma’s figure swirls in Frank’s eyesight as he tries to focus.
“I’m fine,” he mumbles, tongue thick.
Dana is grasping his shoulders. “Honey, you back with us?” When only silence greets her, she shifts her neck to glance at the other nurse. “Emma, grab Robby for me?”
“No!”
The outburst shocks them all, enough for even Santos’ eyes to blow wide and Dana to go rigid.
“I’m fine,” he gets out, pushing off the hands and standing up even when the floor threatens to sweep out. “I just… I’m sorry. That won’t happen again.”
Emma’s face twists, waiting for Dana to object, but the older woman only sighs. Frank interrupts before she could utter a word.
“I need to head back to triage. There’s no need to get Robby involved.” His palms clench, white knuckling to keep the nausea down. “I have to go. I’m sorry.”
Deja-vu flickers in his brain before being snuffed out like a flame. As shit as his day has gone so far, Frank is not in any mood to make it all the more worse thinking about the last time he phoned home during work. Can he even call it home anymore?
The ringing is dull in his ears, the phone cold as it's pressed to the side of his face. His fore finger taps against the back restlessly, praying on all odds that Abby will have the decency to pick up the call. The time on his watch reads four-thirty-seven; early enough for them to still be at home in case of July fourth plans.
Frank’s about to give up, shut off his phone and banish to the depths of his locker, but the click of the line picking up freezes him in his tracks.
“Frank?” A timid voice asks. Abby knew it's his first day; maybe she knew it was going to go terribly.
“Abby,” he breathes.
He hasn’t seen her in a week, hasn’t heard her voice in four days, hasn’t interacted with her in one, and hasn't thought about her in twenty minutes. While they’ve been separated since coming back from rehab, neither of the two of them have worked up the courage to wield the divorce papers. There’s little chance of them rekindling what once was, but that doesn’t stop the glimpse of hope in the depths of his stomach.
“Did something happen?” She asks again with more force.
“No, no. I just…” Frank stumbles, leaning against the row of lockers. The cold metal digs into his back.
The worry is gone now. An annoyance lingers now. “Frank.”
His eyes clench close. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have- How are Tanner and Penny?”
A sigh travels down the line, but Abby speaks anyway. There’s a sound of rustling in the background that makes him think she’s in the midst of preparing dinner. He hasn’t had a homemade meal in months. “They’re doing fine, but I think Penny’s running a fever.”
A shiver crawls up his neck. “Is she okay? You should-”
“We went to the pediatrician this morning, Frank,” Abby interrupts, voice clipped. “She probably just caught something at daycare. I’m keeping the two separate, I don’t want Tanner to get sick either.”
“Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense.”
Frank’s eyes travel to the end of the hallway into the ED floor, watching the others move like a well-oiled machine. One he used to fit perfectly into. But here he was, on the sidelines, clutching one life source that wanted nothing to do with him.
“How’s work?”
A torn laugh escapes him before he could stop it. “Going as well as I thought it was going to go,” he whispers, keeping his voice down as Princess wheels a patient down the hallway. “Actually, I…” he starts again, biting the bullet. “Can I- Can I speak to Tanner? I know I- just… please?”
The sigh is back, only more drawn and tired. “You can’t call every time something happens at work, Frank. I don’t want him affected with… any of that stuff.”
“Please,” he begs, full of shame. The hope turns cold and withered. “I don’t even have to say anything. I just want to hear his voice.”
“Frank. He’s… he’s about to go to sleep, I-”
“Abby, please.”
Abby relents, exhaling sharply. “You can see him tomorrow.”
Relief sinks into his knees. He’ll take anything he can get, tightening his grip on any glimpse of normalcy until he loses sensation. “Thank you. Thank yo-”
The line drones, interrupting him. He pulls down the phone from his ear, the screen shifting back to the app, Abby’s name listed at the top before it vibrates twice in his hand. The words ‘Call Ended’ pop up at the top.
Tears prickle in the corners of his eyes before Frank straightens up, his back creaking like old floorboards. He sucks in a breath at the pain, tossing his phone on an extra pair of scrubs in his locker. A loud clang echoes as he overshoots it and it hits the side of the locker, and through the blinding lights of the hospital, he sees a new crack form.
A second later, the screen lights up, a reminder for a drug test he’s supposed to send in by eight tonight. His eyes skip over it, landing on the crack. Like fate, it etches itself right between the picture of him and his family.