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ribbitrabbot · 2 days ago

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speculations

pairing : frank langdon x fem!resident

plot : you and frank have been friends for a long time , so much so that there’s always been a fleet of rumors circling you two . the rumors have never been without reason ; there’s always been sort of a shy tension between the two of you , but you’d never acted on it on the basis that dating between friends and coworkers has always been complicated . but a bad day at work seems to be enough for the both of you to finally acknowledge it .

warnings : uhh none that i can think of , just a bit of a spat with robby . just a bunch of sweet stuff , some fluff and comfort :3

a/n : frank’s not married in this ( idk if this is obvious or not , i’m just saying ) . this is my first x reader in a fat minute , i hope y’all like it !!

word count : 4.4k

“Besides,” You continue, braving the hot slice of pizza enough to gingerly pick it up, “If there’s any ‘next time’, Robby’s gonna kick my ass all the way around the block.”

“No, he’s not.” Frank picks his own slice from the box, and you do little to hide your somewhat judgemental facial expression as he takes a bite from it, ice-cold. “You’re clearly the favorite. Unless you, I don’t know, kill someone, he’ll always let you off easy.”

“Easy for you to say, you weren’t in here.”

“Did he do the face?”

“What face?”

“You know, the face. The face he does so you know he’s really disappointed in you.”

“Frank, I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Like this.” He says, dropping his piece down and then doing his best arms - crossed, head tilt, eyebrow raise Robby — an imitation that looks so stupid on Frank that you can’t help but laugh. You have to hand it to him, though. It’s a pretty accurate disappointed depiction.

The thing about hindsight is, is that it’s usually even more of a bitch than karma. Most people use hindsight to refer to obvious things — in hindsight, I wouldn’t have drunk that much, or in hindsight I wouldn’t have given that creep my number. Your hindsight was mostly about how much you should have listened to your gut screaming at you to call in sick this morning when you rolled out of bed and how stupid you were to ignore the dragging feeling on nights where you’d only gotten a couple hours of sleep. There was no reason for you to feel as crummy as you did; you’d worked in the pit long enough to at least try and shake the feelings away at the end of your shift, shower, eat whatever was left in your refrigerator, and turn on some show you’d already seen three times over. Maybe it wasn’t really healing, but it was enough to get by.

The adrenaline would fix you, anyway, it always did. Or at the very least you were hoping so. Maybe that was the real reason you’d picked emergency medicine as a specialty, besides the usual reasons of helping people, because you were half addicted to the rush of it all. But you were three hours into your shift, and not even the narrow rescue of four victims in a vehicle collision or being included in Perlah and Princess’ gossip had done much to raise your spirits. It must have been written all over your face, too, because it wasn’t just the interns who were tiptoeing around you like you were surrounded by eggshells.

“Mister Grant,” You sighed now, the very last your beside patience being damn near worn to a fray, “You need to understand how much this surgery could help Phoebe. Quite frankly, the longer we wait, the worse it could be for her.”

“But she doesn’t need the surgery right at this second. We can see if she gets any better.” The man insists. You can see the worry in his dark eyes, the entirety of his features aged by concern for his teenage daughter that had been brought in unresponsive by her friend. Any other day, you would feel more sympathetic for him; you would hold his hand and explain in painstaking detail why this procedure could be lifesaving. No parent wanted their child to be cut open needlessly, you can understand that, but today all his stubbornness does is grate on nerves you weren’t even aware of.

“I understand how upsetting this must be for you —“ You begin, a sentence from the nonexistent but universally known manual of Bedside 101, but his sudden anger cuts you off, his eyes flashing with accusation.

“Don’t give me that. All you doctors, it’s the same thing. You understand, you aren’t trying to upset me. You don’t understand. How could you possibly understand, you’re all trying to cut up my kid! Do you have a kid, Doctor? Can you honestly look me in the fucking eyes and say you understand? Fuck you.”

Your jaw ticks. You can see the emotion there, the fear, the need to find someone to lash out at. To blame. Everything in you is screaming to give him the benefit of the doubt, to chalk it up to a parent who sees tubes and wires sticking out of their whole world and immediately jumps to the worst possible conclusion. It’s not altogether an irrational reaction. Hell, if you were in his shoes, maybe you’d react the same way.

And then there’s the small voice within you that just manages to convince you that he’s an asshole. You shouldn’t listen to it. You shouldn’t. Had you been in a cartoon, it would have been the little devil whispering in your ear.

“Fine.” You say, with a sort of edged coolness that parents normally have when their children say something just a step too far. Your smile is tight lipped, and you wonder if your eyes flash with the barely restrained anger that you feel jumbling up inside of you. “Fine. I can tell that you, Mister Grant, clearly know more than me. It’s not like I’ve seen a dozen of these cases before. Hey, I’ve been to medical school, but you’re right. What do I know? I don’t have any kids.” You shrug sarcastically, then turn towards Donnie, who looked as though he was trying to walk past unnoticed. In fact, it looked like the entire radius in which you were speaking to Mr. Grant had suddenly turned into a danger zone. “Donnie, can you get Mister Grant any medical records he may need for Phoebe? And let O.R know — “

“Doctor L/n, can I consult with you?” The voice behind you stops your locomotive of orders dead. You turn just enough to acknowledge Robby, whose normally playful brown eyes have hardened to a coolness reserved for cocky interns and hardass superiors. But you’re surprised by the spike of annoyance that greets you, instead of any sort of remorse. The last thing you need is a chew - out from Robby, but there’s no avoiding it.

“Yeah. Fine.” You say curtly.

“Mister Grant, I’ll be back with you in a second, okay?” With a quick sentence, Robby confirms the trouble you’re in. ‘I’ll’, not your name or even we. He barely casts you a glance before turning on his heel, Mr. Grant still too stunned to even give a real reply. You pinch the bridge of your nose, tilting your head at the ground before sighing and following him.

You know the way to the break room, and even the looks that you’re getting as you follow Robby, even though you’re usually on the other side of them. The both of you are lucky it’s empty, and Robby almost slams the door behind him as he follows you in. You watch, biting the inside of your cheek as he tiredly rubs his face; you lean against the counter.

“Wanna tell me what the hell’s going on with you?” He asks, crossing his arms as he looks at you, head tilting.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve had a stick up your ass all day, so if I need to schedule OR to take it out, let me know.” Had he not been snippy, it would have been a better joke. Instead it makes you clench your teeth.

“I’m just tired.” It’s an excuse you’ve used a million times. Robby smiles and shakes his head.

“Oh, bullshit.” He’s right. You both know it. “You’re not the ‘just tired’ type, Y/n. You’re tired, take a walk. But you cannot talk to your patients like that.”

“Come on, Robby, you saw how that guy was acting. He was a fucking asshole!”

“It doesn’t matter, Y/n!” The laughter in his voice is stressed, dangerous. “You’re smarter than this. You’re tired, you’re stressed, take a walk, eat, do whatever you need to do. But you don’t lose your shit. Got it? Can you do that?”

You know it’s not personal. You know Robby has a thousand different things on his plate, that your temper is just another thing for him to worry about. That this is him keeping his own temper towards you — but it doesn’t make you feel any better. You want to feel angry at him, to only wallow in the hollowness that has haunted you since the day’s start. It makes his tone feel more patronizing than it normally would.

“Gee, I don’t know, that’s really hard, but I think I can handle it.” You sneer, your voice dripping with sarcasm. Robby looks at you, and for a moment you feel sorry. But before you can admit it, he gives a short sigh.

“Take a minute.” He’s out of the room before you can say anything else. Half of you wants to defy him, to stride out of the room and get back to work to prove a point. You don’t need Robby to put you in timeout, to punish you for acting the same way anyone would with the difficult Mr. Grant. Instead, you stare at the door he closed behind him, hands wandering up and pressing to your eyes after a long moment. The other half of you doesn’t care enough to prove a point. That half of you knows that it’s a losing fight, that if you go out there as hotheaded as you are right now, that it’s less a get back at Robby and more making everyone around you tense without reason. Maybe that would slide in any other sort of job, but the pit needed to work like a machine. No one could afford to be worrying about their coworkers when they already had worry enough with the patients that constantly came pouring into the door.

You’re just about to open the refrigerator to see what forgotten food you could raid when a knock snags your attention. You can’t place whether or not you hope it’s Robby or you hope it’s not, either way you scarcely bother to glance at the door before you call out.

“What?”

The door opens, but only some.

“Safe to come in?”

You’re unprepared for how welcome the familiar voice is, and it suddenly comes with a realization that you hadn’t heard it much at all today. You don’t bother to look behind you, but you answer.

“Whatever.”

Frank takes it as a yes. He closes the door gently behind him, then creeps up to look over your shoulder at the shelves of the refrigerator.

“Pizza’s probably your best bet. Unless you want to take your chance with yogurt that is either the same flavor or the same carton that was here in January.”

God, he’s so fucking annoying.

He’s close enough that his voice buzzes in your ear. Had anyone else done this, there was a very real possibility that you would have flipped your shit — someone with a lack of personal space would be a cherry on top of the shit show the last few minutes had already been. Instead, you try not to roll your eyes and slap your hand on top of the cardboard box.

“Move.” You order, and you can feel him back off from behind you. When you finally turn to face him, he’s already looking at you. His hands are tugging mindlessly at the stethoscope around his neck — you’d noticed a long time ago that he usually needed to be doing something with his hands. To ask him to sit still and do nothing for five minutes was as good as medieval torture. It was endearing most of the time, although a bouncing leg or a mindless tapping of his pen could get annoying. You don’t indulge him, instead you pull out a chair from the table and slap the cardboard box down.

Although you’re not in the most talkative of moods, you’re glad that he’s here. Truth be told, he was probably the only one you could handle being around at the moment.

You’d met him when you’d first started your residency at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical, not too long ago although it now felt like a lifetime. He’d been even cockier then, if that was even possible — a scrappy, difficult, smartass who had to learn things the rough way before he developed a begrudging admiration for Robby, which would later turn into a mutual bond. In those days, you remembered fondly, he often had unshaven stubble and a shadow under his eyes; those who didn’t know any better would think him a med student for all the time he spent here. You’d gotten along with him even then, even when people found his humor irritating and his doctoring methods questionable. Granted, the road had not always been smooth; there’d been a lot of banter in those early days. Well, maybe calling it banter was being a little too nice. Usually, he’d say something irritating, and you’d respond with something that would make him crack a smile of amusement. And other times he’d say something to make you laugh, genuinely, and he’d smile in response to that, too.

But the fun that came with the back and forth was only part of why the two of you had ultimately ended up being so close. Frank was smart, genuinely smart. Anyone, you’d learned, could memorize stuff from books and lectures and hours and hours of classes and tests, spit out the facts that they’d been forced to memorized like they were computers accessing files; and most did. But Frank knew people and because he knew people he knew his business. Most doctors you’d worked with diagnosed them and treated them like the print advised them to treat them. Frank would diagnose them and then treat them to get better whether it was textbook or not, and he did it in the span of a few seconds or the span of a few days. There was a genuine care that was veiled by the guise of a blunt sense of humor. Perhaps your ability to see past the veil was what had allowed you two to work so excellently together at the beginning, and later become a duo not unlike … well, whatever duo worked together really well.

“You’re a popular girl.” Frank murmurs, pulling a chair to sit, uninvited, next to you. You scoff and roll your eyes, fiddling with the pizza box as you try to decide whether you’re hungry or just upset. It’s unsurprising, the fact that the news of your flip - out on a patient’s concerned father has made the rounds so quickly. “Want me to try it first, make sure it’s not too moldy?” Frank asks after a beat, nodding towards the box. He’s worried, even if he’s trying to disguise it with a stupid tease. You can hear it in his tone. When you work with somebody almost every day, you get to tell what every single inflection means, every single pitch.

“You see me freak out?” You ask, turning your head as your rest your cheek in your hand.

“Uh, no, but you did that screeching thing you do when you get really mad.”

“Fuck you.” You have to try not to crack a smile. “I didn’t screech.”

It’s almost like just sitting in the room with him is relieving a tenseness you hadn’t even realized had been so heavy on you, like his voice was dusting a layer of soot away from your insides.

“Okay I wasn’t there, but Perlah said it got pretty ugly.” Frank drags the pizza box towards himself, then gets up with it, wandering over towards the microwave.

“Perlah said! Perlah’ll say anything if it’s good gossip.”

“Well, I gotta keep myself entertained somehow, and if you’re not gonna talk, Perlah’s my next best option.” Frank manages to find a plate to put what you imagine your slice, and you have to hand it to him — he’s got you backed into a corner where you have to answer.

“It wasn’t that bad.” You insist after a moment after Frank puts your pizza in to heat up, and then rotates to face you. “It’s just. Parents, you know. Sometimes they can be … “ you trail off as you search for the right word. “Irritating.”

“Stupid.” Frank agrees, giving the word that you were a little too nice to say outright. “I swear to God, I don’t know how some of them raise a whole person.”

“They’re raising a person that’s gonna end up with a bunch of disorders.” You joke, which pries a chuckle out of Frank as he pulls your food out of the microwave.

“When you flip your shit on a parent next time, can you make sure I’m there to watch? Or better yet, I’ll record it and then play it at your funeral in fifty years.” He puts the plate down in front of you, then sits back down with the box in front of him.

“You’re insane if you think you think you’re gonna be invited to my funeral. And I’m gonna outlive you anyway.” You smile. It’s strange thing to think of you two staying friends for so long, but then again it’s almost like you can’t even remember what it had been like when you didn’t see Frank most every day. You two were practically joined at the hip whenever you were on shift together, working together in sync the way doctors rarely did. It was no surprise that the rumors had begun to spark just a week or two after you two had just met. You wouldn’t be surprised if there was actually a monetary pool surrounding the idea if you two had actually slept together, considering that you’d been asked more than once if you two were an item. There were a thousand reasons to shoot it down — dating in the workplace, especially one where so much hinges on trust and teamwork, a fallout would be the last thing anyone needed. And you two had been friends for so long, there was the fear that anything more would ruin what you had already. But then again, there was the looks that lasted a little too long — the flirtations that lingered somewhere between a joke and the real thing that made you wonder if there could be something more.

“Besides,” You continue, braving the hot slice of pizza enough to gingerly pick it up, “If there’s any ‘next time’, Robby’s gonna kick my ass all the way around the block.”

“No, he’s not.” Frank picks his own slice from the box, and you do little to hide your somewhat judgmental facial expression as he takes a bite from it, ice-cold. “You’re clearly the favorite. Unless you, I don’t know, kill someone, he’ll always let you off easy.”

“Easy for you to say, you weren’t in here.”

“Did he do the face?”

“What face?”

“You know, the face. The face he does so you know he’s really disappointed in you.”

“Frank, I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“You’ve had a lot of experience with that?” You ask, unable to tamper down your grin as he smiles back at you.

“Absolutely more than my fair share.”

“Poor you.” You coo mockingly, and it’s his turn to roll his eyes as he chuckles.

A silence drifts over the both of you. Frank’s chuckle fades into a gentle smile as he observes you in a way that almost makes you nervous.

“You okay though? Seriously?” He asks, playful tone fading into something more genuine.

“Uh,” you shrug. “I dunno. Weird day.”

“Well it’s a slow day at the office. I can see if he’ll let you knock off early.” The fact that he’s willing to brave a likely already pissed off Robby for you is definitely sweet, and the offer of going home is enticing.

“I have patients.” You try to use that as

your excuse, but Frank is already shaking his head.

“I can take care of them, don’t sweat it.”

“You sure?”

“Look who you’re talking to.”

“Oh, I forgot. You’re Superman.” You mock, but Frank looks prideful at the obvious poke. “Nah, it’ll be okay. If you pick up my shift there’s bound to be speculation. More speculation.”

“What speculation?” He tries to play it off innocently, but you know better. The sly smile ticking across his features is enough to make you shake your head at him, tongue poking into your cheek to try and quell a matching smile.

“You know exactly what speculation, you’re too smart not too.” You remark like it’s supposed to be an insult, yet there’s a certain sort of softness to it as you look at him. The gesture, even if you had not taken up him on it, was an impossibly sweet one. Even if was a “slow day”, as Frank put it, that guaranteed nothing. It could be that things could pick up if you did leave, or that one of your patients could have difficulties, leaving him with a lot to juggle with his and yours. Not to mention the ruthless teasing that he would be sure to endure. You pick up the pizza slice — mostly cool by now — with the intention of finishing it off.

Frank watches you with the same gentle expression on his face as you do so. Had you been intent on going back home, he would have convinced Robby to let you — but then again, he knew you had the same sort of stubbornness that he did, and you weren’t likely to take him up on the offer even if there was cause for more concern. Had he thought there was something seriously wrong, he would have coaxed you into taking the day off. But just like you knew him, he knew you. He knew every tick of your face, what every inflection meant and every offhanded remark. He knew you the way he knew his own mind. There was no doubt in his mind that it was just one of those days; but even if you weren’t going home, he made a mental note to watch you for the rest of your shift, make sure you were really alright. After all, when Perlah had said something about your “flip - out”, he could feel the concern grip him like a rock in his stomach almost immediately. Dana had given him a knowing look when he’d asked where you were so he could check on you. You were right, he wasn’t taking a whole lot of care to avoid fanning any flames of speculation about the both of you; but it wasn’t like they were baseless, either. He cared about you so much it was almost stupid.

“Compliments will get you everywhere, my friend.” He returns with a cocky half smile that you were so familiar with as you turn put your plate in the sink behind you. For a break room, it sure is cramped if you don’t even have to stand up to do so. There’s another bout of silence as you look back at him. Even though he’s hidden it under a mask of light humor, you can still see the slight worry in his eyes. He wouldn’t have hung around this long if he genuinely didn’t want to make sure you would be alright. Again, there’s a slight pang in your chest — a momentary question of what if.

“Thanks for hanging out with me, though.” You say, trying to make it sound casual.

You can tell that the sudden genuineness catches him a little off guard. His cocky half smile fades into something almost unsure; his fingers tap at his knee like a nervous fidget.

“Yeah, you know,” he tries to shrug it off. “I’m around here. A lot. And I like you, so.” You blink, cock your head a little as he shakes his head, tries to reword his statement. “I mean, we’re friends. I wanna know you’re okay.”

Objectively you’ve never seen him so nervous, not even when Robby’s voice boomed across the pit in the tone he uses when he means business and not when the occasional patient, stunning, blonde, and, let’s face it, with a rack that would be the envy of almost any woman flirted shamelessly with him. He’s always been the picture of suave, knowing exactly which lines to say and how to look. But with you, he’s like a high - schooler on a first date. It’s like you disarm him completely — and the shyness seems to be catching.

Barely audible is his name on your lips. Perhaps you meant something to come after it other than the kiss that was maybe him or maybe you or maybe the both of you — almost timid at first and quickly something more intimate; something finally released that had too long been locked away behind harmless flirtations and barely disguised jokes, behind whispered rumors and the knowing looks the nurses and other doctors would give whenever the two of you would pass by, practically matching each other in your strides. Any trace of denial that you two had maintained for the years you’d been here was wiped away in the moment. When you finally pull away from him, your mind is spinning; but it’s almost like an invisible weight has been lifted from you, and you can’t help the subtle smile that plays across your expression.

“So.” He murmurs, practically against your lips still.

“So.”

“We should probably get back.”

“Probably.”

And then he kisses you again, quicker this time, something much more domestic, like he already could get used to kissing you in the days ahead, weeks … years? Yet he didn’t want to get ahead of himself. Even if it was hard not to.

You’re the one to get up first, considering that he’s still looking at you like you’re a muse of some sort. Whatever cloud had been hanging over your head, he had managed to whisk away completely.

“Come on.” You urge as you move to open the door, and with the instruction, it’s like he’s snapped out of some sort of reverie. He gets up out of his chair, wasting no time in following the command, and beats you to pulling open the door as if your kiss has turned him into some sort of gentleman.

“Doing anything tonight?” He asks softly as you fall in step with him, the two of you cautious to avoid any curious glances your way. You crack a grin at how quickly he gets to work, yet something about it is endearing.

“Besides sleeping?” You quirk, and you half expect him to make some lewd comment in reply, but he skips it.

“I have some excellent week - old Chinese food in my refrigerator.” He offers, and you snort and nod, taking a beat to try and come up with a satisfactory reply.

“Hard to turn down free food.” You finally come up with, and you can’t help but think that it’s cute that eyes seem to shine with hope. “We’ll see how this shift goes?”

“Heard.” He responds, before Whitaker snags his attention by calling out his name. As he strides towards the direction the voice came from, he turns on his heel to give you one last glance — one that is impossible not to grin at.

#the pitt #pittposting #frank langdon #frank langdon x reader #frank langdon x you #langdon x reader #langdon x you #fanfiction #x reader

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