trishxtrix

[trishxtrix]

THE PITT EMMY SWEEP. FINGERS CROSSED.

[trishxtrix]

Here's a playlist for my OC in The Bench Across the Street <333

[trishxtrix]

The Bench Across the Street

AO3

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Summary: What if Abby is hurting and forcing Frank to take benzos to “control” his ADHD?

What if few hours after the argument, Frank is brought to the ED on a brink of an overdose and some unexplainable injuries.

TW: Abuse, Overdose, Suicide Attempt

Tags: Dark!Abby | Frank whump | Frank-centric | Miscommunication | Abusive!Abby | abusive relationships | threats of violence | implied/reference child endangerment | is this considered AU? | spousal abuse | men can be victims of abuse too

———————————————————

Ms. Hadley

   It had all happened so fast.

   One moment, Tanner was in the middle of quiet reading time—his small frame curled near the edge of the classroom rug, chewing on the end of his pencil, eyes half-lidded in that sleepy-but-focused way he always got after lunch. The next, he was swaying. Then listing. Then collapsing silently like a puppet whose string had been clipped.

   I was at his side before anyone else even noticed. His skin was clammy. His pulse was barely there.

   I called 911.

   Riding in the ambulance, I sat with his hand in mind, talking softly to keep myself from unraveling, 

   The paramedics worked fast, speaking in clipped, precise terms I didn’t fully understand, Heart rate low. BP unstable. Oxygenation dropping.

   Tanner had been off lately—more tired than usual, slower to respond, clumsy with motor tasks. We thought it was stress. Maybe growth fatigue. His mom said he was just going through a rough patch.

   Nothing prepared me for this.

   By the time we arrived at PTMC, trauma teams were already in motion. The doors to the ambulance bay banged open, and the gurney shot through with Tanner’s small form strapped down, an oxygen mask hiding most of his face.

   Frank Langdon appeared out of nowhere.

   One second he wasn’t there, the next he was pushing through staff, gloves already snapped on, eyes wide and wild. I’d never seen a person move with that kind of desperation. He didn’t hesitate—just reached for Tanner, touched his wrist like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.

   “Langdon!” someone called—an older doctor, voice sharp.

   Frank didn’t move.

   Didn’t even look u[ until the man blocked him. “You know you can’t.”

   Frank’s jaw worked like he was swallowing something back. He looked like he was drowning on dry land. Then, slowly, he pulled the gloves off. Stepped away.

   I couldn’t look away.

   Because that wasn’t the Frank Langdon I’d been told about.

   Abby had described someone absent. Someone too busy. Too tired. Someone who didn;t come to conferences unless she made him. Who never asked questions. Who left it all to her.

   But the man I saw today—he was breaking.

   Breaking over a little boy who couldn’t even open his eyes.

   He hovered outside the trauma bay like gravity was working differently on him. His entire body looked like it wanted to move but couldn’t. When the attending—Dr. Shah, I think—took over, issuing orders with calm precision, Frank didn’t get in the way. He didn’t argue.

   He just…collapsed inward.

   The worst moment came when he pulled out his phone.

   For a second, I thought maybe he was calling Abby.

   But then I heard him whisper, “Mia.”

   His voice cracked like ice under pressure. “It’s tanner. Collapse. Bradycardic. Hypotensive. I—Mia, please.”

   Whoever Mia was, she didn’t even pause.

   “I’m coming,” I heard faintly, right before Frank dropped his hand, staring ahead like nothing else existed.

   He didn’t even think of calling Abby first.

   And that said more than any school record or anecdote ever could.

   I sat down hard on the nearest bench, heart in my throat.

   Because something was deeply wrong here.

   And for the first time, I realized just how much we’d missed by believing the loudest voice in the room.

   Frank Langdon wasn’t absent.

   He was shattered.

~~~~~~~

Jack

   Shift began the same way it always does—with the leftover static of day shift hanging in the corners of the ED like smoke that won’t clear. The floors already had their tell-tale scuff. Rubber soles, gurney wheels, stress-soaked tread marks etched into linoleum. The scent of antiseptic always tried to assert dominance, but I could catch the undercurrents—sweat, old blood, the breathless heat of panic. War and emergency medicine carry the same ghosts. You learn to greet them. 

   I found Robby hunched over at the nurses’ station. He clutched the tablet like it might start bleeding if he let go. His posture was wrong. Rigid. But in the way someone gets when they’re trying too hard to appear calm. His eyes didn’t quite meet mine.

   “The board’s been light for the last two hours,” Robby said, flipping through the digital chart like he had something to prove to himself. “Vitals are stable across the bay. Two psych evals waiting on beds. Trauma’s been calm. But—”

   His voice caught, just slightly. The word hung there for a tense moment. 

   “But keep an eye on Langdon’s kid, Tanner, in peds. Labs are pending.”

   I blinked once. “Tanner’s here?”

   He nodded, jaw tight. “Yeah.”

   I didn’t ask anything else. Robby’s face already told me more than he intended to give. Guilt. The bitter kind. The kind that comes too late to stop the bleeding.

   “He stable?” I ask.

   “As of an hour ago. Shah’s lead. Mia’s on too.” He exhaled like it burned. “I should’ve seen it.”

   I stared at him for a second longer. “Go home. Rest. You need it, brother.”

   He looked like he wanted to argue, but he didn’t. He turned and left with the walk of a man being followed by something he couldn’t outrun.

~~~~~~~

   The shift marched forward, just like always. Admissions, consults, code calls, normal noise. But beneath it was a hum—like the room knew something that people didn’t.

   Peds pulled gravity. Conversations paused near its door. Glances hung longer. Like everyone was waiting for something to drop. 

   Almost two hours into the shift, the notification came through. DV flag on Tanner’s file. That made things clearer. Darker. The kind of shadow that didn’t just stretch—it multiplied.

   I caught sight of Sha by the nurses’ station, staring at Tanner’s chart like he was trying to will the numbers to rearrange themselves into something less damning.

   I walked up slowly, leaned my elbow on the counter.

   “Shah,” I greeted, voice low. “Any updates on Tanner?”

   He looked up, eyes shadowed with something heavier than exhaustion. “Stable enough,” he sighed. “But the preliminary tox results are concerning.”

   I raised an eyebrow. “How concerning?”

   “Elevated B6, metaxalone in the system. It’s not a one-off. This wasn’t a single bad dose. It’s been going on.”

   I felt something cold settle at the base of my spine. “CPS?”

   He nodded. “Sooner rather than later. This kind of report, we’re mandated.”

   I shifted my weight slightly, glanced towards the peds room. “Do you think Frank is handling this okay?”

   Shah exhaled through his nose. “He’s carrying a heavy load. I can see it. Every word, every breath—he’s holding something back. I don’t think he knows how to stop carrying it.”

   “Does he know the extent yet?”

   “Not yet. We’re waiting on final confirmation, but…” he trailed off, the implication clear. “He’ll need support—now more than ever.”

   I gave a small nod. “We’ll be ready.”

~~~~~~~

   Frank was standing outside the peds room, still as a ghost. Hands flexing. Not moving. Just watching the door like his son might vanish the moment he blinked.

   I’ve learned to read people better than monitors. War teaches that. So does medicine. You catch the tremble in a hand, the pause in a breath, the silence between words. That’s where the truth lives.

   Frank Langdon was splintering.

   Not shattered. Not yet. But breaking where no one could see.

   I watched him for a moment longer before I spoke. “Langdon.”

   He blinked. Took a second too long to focus.

   “You okay?”

   He nodded. Automatic. Too fast.

   “You’ve been standing there for a while.”

   “I don’t want to go in.”

   “Then don’t,” I said. “But don’t stand here like you’re vanishing. You’re his father, not a ghost.”

   His shoulders slumped like that truth gave him permission to exhale.

   I left him there and stepped into the room. Abby smiled when she saw me. Tight. Polished.

   “Jack,” she greeted. Voice all honey.

   “Abby.” I didn’t sit.

   “I appreciate everyone’s concern. It’s been…a difficult day.”

   “I imagine.”

   She tilted her head. “Is there something I can help with?”

   “Just a few questions. About Frank?”

   Her face barely shifted, but her eyes narrowed.

   “I’ve known him a long time,” I said. “Served before this. Watched people break. I know what pushes them.”

   “Frank’s been under pressure,” she said. “I’ve supported him through everything.”

   “You think he’s a danger?”

   Her pause was telling.

   “I think he’s unwell. And the people around him—some—might be encouraging that.”

   There it was. A careful dig.

   I didn’t flinch. Just filed it away.

   Because she wasn’t defending herself.

   She was playing to win.

   When I stepped back out, Frank was still there. I stopped beside him.

   “She’s not what she pretends to be,” I said.

   He nodded. No surprise in his eyes.

~~~~~~~

   At 21:30, Deacon Krueger arrived. CPS. Looked like a man with orders and no room for hesitation. Mia met him before he got to the nurses’ station. Whatever she said, it was enough. He nodded once, followed her.

   I found Bridget at the med station.

   “How’s Tanner?”

   “Still unconscious. Stable. Monitored every 30 minutes. But something’s off about the way Abby hover. It’s like she’s more worried about being seen worrying than actually worrying.”

   “Really?”

   She frowned slightly. “She’s like playing a part but also watching like it’s her stage.”

   Didn’t need more. I made another loop. Checked monitors. Pretended like any of it mattered more than the feeling in my gut.

~~~~~~~

   At 22:09, I walked into the break room and found Mia at the counter, half-bent over a chart. Her sleeves rolled up. Her stethoscope hung like a weight.

   “He’s hanging on,” she said without looking up.

   I stepped beside her. “Feels like this whole place is holding its breath.”

   She handed me a printout.

   “Final tox?”

   She nodded.

   I scanned. “Sustained B6. Acute metaxalone.”

   “Not an accident. Not a one-time event.”

   “They now?”

   “Deacon’s with Frank. Abby is waiting her turn in peds.”

   “You?”

   Mia gave me a dry smile. “Still standing.”

   I just squeezed her shoulder and stepped out.

~~~~~~~

   After Frank’s interview with Deacon, I caught him lingering by the vending machines near the staff hallway. He looked worse than before—slumped, like something inside him had cracked open and wouldn’t close again. There was a shadow behind his eyes that hadn’t been there earlier. Not despair. Something more exhausted.

   “You want to sit?” I asked, motioning to the empty chairs along the wall.

   He followed without a word.

   “You held up,” I said.

   “I don’t feel like I did.”

   “That’s how it always feels. But you stayed. That’s what matters.”

   He swallowed hard. “I didn’t know what she was doing. The supplements…she just said they were multivitamins.”

   “She kept you in the dark on purpose.”

   He looked at me then, eyes bloodshot. “What if it’s too late?”

   “It’s not,” I leaned in, voice steady. “Tanner’s alive. He’s got people in his corner. So do you.”

   Frank nodded slowly. “Mia’s on shift”

   “She’s got your six,” I said. “We all do. One foot in front of the other, Langdon. That’s all we ask.”

   A faint breath escaped him, something too quiet to be called relief—but not despair either.

   That was enough.

   For now.

~~~~~~~

Deacon

   I entered through the main hospital entrance, not the ambulance bay, or ER entrance. Years of walking into chaos taught me to take the quieter door. But even there, I could feel it—tension bleeding from the walls, humming through the air like static.

   Mia Castellano stood near the elevators, hoodie zipped, stethoscope hanging from her neck. Still and sharp, like the blade of a scalpel. She didn’t waste time with small talk. Just handed me an official file.

   “Copy of Frank Langdon’s official DV report,” she murmured, her voice low enough to slip beneath the hospital’s hum. “And this—” she tapped the unmarked file in her hand, fingers deliberate—“isn’t in the official record. Just so you can see how bad it gets.”

   I took the file, the weight of it sinking into my hand.  “You trust me with this?”

   She didn’t flinch. Her gaze held steady, sharp as ever. “I saved your life, didn’t I?”

   And she had.

   Two years ago, a backroom vet clinic moonlighting as an emergency fix-it shop. I’d been shot, bleeding out after pulling a kid from the wrong house during a sting gone sideways. No EMS. No hope. Mia was already there—sleeves rolled up, gloves snapped on, barking orders like she owned the place.

   She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t care who I worked for or why I’d ended up on her table. Just went to work, stitching and clamping, keeping me breathing when I had minutes left to spare. Twelve, to be exact. She did it in ten.

   “You kept me alive.” I said, the memory sharp in my mind.

   “I don’t like loose ends,” she replied, her tone flat, almost dismissing. Then softer, with the faintest edge of something human beneath the steel: “Now let’s cut one of yours.”

   She handed the second folder. Heavier. Darker. I opened it just enough to glimpse the contents—evidence. Photos. Logs. Notations that painted a picture so stark and brutal it hit like a gut punch. I’d seen this before in my line of work. Too many times.

   “Get familiar,” she said, her voice pulling me back. “Confirmatory tox screen’s due in thirty. Enter the peds room three minutes after we do.”

   I nodded, tucking the files under my arm.

   She turned without another word, walking away with the same unrelenting focus she’d had the day she pulled me back from the brink. No hesitation. No glance over her shoulder.

   She didn’t look back.

~~~~~~~

   I took a seat just off the nurses’ station, tucked beside the vending machines with a half-busted view of the trauma board. The files in my hands weighed more than its pages should.

   Mia’s handwriting was still exact. Sharp edges. Blocky script. She wrote like someone who had once needed everything to be legible in the dark. Every note was dated. Cross-referenced. Annotated. Immaculate.

   I flipped through photos. Swollen wrists. Bruises hidden beneath shirt collars. Emergency room timestamps that matched Mia’s personal logs. She had documented it all. Painstakingly. Thoroughly. There was a quiet rage in the way she had assembled the file. The kind of rage that only comes from helplessly watching someone suffer while the world looks away.

   As I read, I caught her out of the corner of my eye.

   Mia.

   Gliding down the hallway in full command of a disaster only half-formed. She stopped to speak with a nurse. Checked a chart mid-stride. Called out instructions to fellow doctors with a clipped but calm authority. Not frantic. Not performative. Just fast and right. Watching her now was like watching someone walk through fire without flinching.

   She spoke with a doctor briefly, exchanging quick words over a new scan. No notes needed. She trusted her memory. Trusted her instincts. There was a quiet economy in her motion—like she’d calculated the weight of every step.

   I remembered the Mia who pressed her hand against my side to keep me whole, stitching me up with the steadiness of someone who had no time for failure, her words sharp and cutting as she dismissed a man offering her a cigarette. That Mia was a blade—sharp, deliberate, and unflinching. This Mia, though, was a quiet current beneath still water, all restraint and unshaken resolve.

   No wonder Frank trusted her.

~~~~~~~

   Frank Langdon looked like a man holding his breath at the edge of a cliff, holding his breath and waiting for the wind to push him over. He slouched in a chair too small for the weight he carried, his hands clasped so tight they might snap. Beside him, Cynthia sat calm and watchful, her focus soft but unwavering, like she was bracing for the moment something broke.

    I slid into the chair across from Frank and opened the folder in my lap. The questions were familiar, as was the tension that hung in the air between us. But the file felt heavier now, knowing what Mia had shown me.

   “Can you confirm your full name, date of birth, and your relationship to the child?”

   He rasped out the answers, his voice rough, as though the words were scraping their way out of his throat.

   “Who is Tanner’s primary caregiver day to day?”

   “Abby,” he said, barely above a whisper. “His mother. My wife. She’s with him more. I work nights. Doubles, mostly.”

   His shoulders sank lower as he spoke, hunching under the weight of his own words. He wasn’t deflecting or dodging the question. He was bracing himself, preparing to be disbelieved.

   “And what do you know about any medications, supplements, or substances Tanner was being given?”

   He hesitated. His gaze dropped to the floor, and for a moment, I thought he might not answer.

   “She said it was just multivitamins,” he murmured finally. “Every time I asked more, she got defensive. Said I was undermining her parenting.”

   I thought of Mia’s descriptions, of the sharp, cutting edge Abby wielded when challenged. His words matched the notes.

   “And the Metaxalone?”

   His head shook before the words came. “I had no idea. I swear. I would never…” his voice cracked and his lips pressed together as if he could physically stop the tremor building in his chest. His eyes glistened, but the tears didn’t fall. Not yet.

   I didn’t press him. Just waited. Silence had a way of drawing truths out of people when words couldn’t.

   “Did you ever administer anything to Tanner yourself?”

   “No,” his voice cracked again, the word raw. “Never. I don’t even know what he gets in his lunch bags.”

   I glanced at Cynthia. She gave me the faintest nod. She saw it too. This man wasn’t lying. He was drowning.

   “Frank,” I said carefully, my voice low, “do you have any reason to believe Abby was harming Tanner intentionally?”

   His hesitation was telling. He didn’t look at me. He looked at his hands, at the floor, at anywhere but my eyes.

   “I don’t want to believe it,” he said slowly. “ But she threatened…”

   “What did she threaten?” I pushed, though I already knew the answer.

   “She said…if I stopped taking the benzos she was giving me, the kids would end up in the ER.” His voice was hollow now, as if the words had drained him. “Like it was a promise,” he added quietly.

   Mia’s hand slid into his, steady and sure. Her touch wasn’t soft—it wasn’t meant to comfort. It was meant to anchor him. And for a moment, his spine straightened, like he could feel that someone, somewhere, still saw him.

   “Have you noticed any changes in Tanner’s behavior over the past few weeks?”

   Frank nodded slowly, the motion weighted with regret.  “He was clumsy. Tired. Said his legs felt heavy.” His voice cracked again as the tears finally broke through. “But I thought…I thought it was just growing. School stress. I didn’t want to see it.”

   “You’ve been under duress yourself,” Cynthia said gently. “That’s not failure. That’s survival.” 

   He let out a broken laugh, shaking his head. “It feels like failure.”

   Mia didn’t flinch. She just tightened her grip on his hand, her steady presence holding him together in a way words couldn’t.

   “Frank,” I said quietly. “I have to ask this clearly. Do you feel Tanner is safe in Abby’s care?”

   The room went quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that sharpens every breath, every heartbeat, until it feels like the edges of the world are closing in.

   Frank’s gaze dropped again, and this time, he didn’t look up. “No,” he whispered. “Not anymore.”

   Mia’s hand slipped away from his. She shifted beside him, stiff and restless, Like she’d stayed too long in one place.

   “I’ve been gone too long,” she said, her voice tight. “I’m still on shift. ” she paused, hesitating for just a moment before her voice softened to almost a whisper.  “But I’ll be nearby. I’ll come back.”

   Frank nodded, his head dipping like it was all he had left in him.

   She hesitated, then touched his shoulder lightly as she passed. “I believe you,” she said. “And I’m not the only one.”

   And then she was gone.

   I turned back to Frank, watching as the weight of it all finally pulled him inward. His hands unclasped, falling limp to his lap, and the tears came freely now, carving silent paths down his face. I slid a box of tissues across the table, not saying anything, just letting him take what he needed.

   Finally, I spoke. “We’ll take it one step at a time,” I said quietly. “And you don’t have to do it alone.”

   He nodded, no words left, just tears.

   And as I sat there, watching him unravel, I thought about the Mia Castellano— the one I’d met in that backroom clinic. The Mia who had been all sharp edges and survival, covered in someone else’s blood, her eyes like honed razors. But the Mia now—this Mia—was different. Still sharp, but channeled. A clean coat, a tight smile, an ER doc with a past only a handful of people would ever understand.

   She hadn’t called me because it was protocol. She called me because she knew this wasn’t going to be easy. That it would be messy. That it would take someone who could see through the cracks, past the lies and the noise, to the truth.

   And as I looked at Frank Langdon, breaking apart in front of me, I understood why she called me.

   Because this man had already survived too much silence.

   And now, it was time for someone to listen.

~~~~~~~

   Abby Langdon sat across from me with her legs crossed and her posture impeccable, hands folded on the table as though we were here to negotiate a mortgage, not a child’s welfare. She looked the part—concerned mother, elegant wife. But there was something brittle about the polish. Something practiced.

      “Mrs. Langdon,” I said, flipping open a fresh page in my notes. “Thank you for speaking with me. This interview is standard when a child presents with substances in their system, especially controlled ones. Do you understand?”

   She nodded with a small, composed smile. “Of course. I want to help however I can.”

   I didn’t smile back. “Can you confirm your full name, date of birth, and your relationship to the child?”

   She did, fluidly, tone even.

   “How would you describe your role in Tanner’s daily care?”

   “I’m the primary caregiver,” she said. “Frank works full-time—mostly nights. I handle meals, school, bedtime. Everything day to day.”

   “And have you administered any medication, vitamins, or supplements to Tanner recently?”

   She tilted her head just slightly. “Only children’s multivitamins. Over the counter. Nothing that would account for this…mix-up.”

   “Was your husband aware of the supplements?”

   “I told him.” she said it lightly, too lightly. “But Frank's been…distracted lately. He’s not very present at home.”

      I didn't write that part down. Just watched her.

   “Can you think of any way Tanner could have come in contact with a muscle relaxant like Metaxalone?”

   Her expression froze for a half-second. Then resent. “Of course not. We don’t even have anything like that in the house. I would never give my child anything unsafe.”

   “Do you know of anyone who might have had access to Tanner unsupervised?”

   “Well…” she sighed. “Frank’s been erratic. He was hospitalized recently. We were all worried about him.”

   There it was.

   “So you’re suggesting that your husband may have given something to Tanner?”

   “Oh, no.” she held up her hands like a shield. “I’m not saying that. I’m just saying…he’s been struggling, And maybe he didn’t notice something. Or maybe someone at the school made a mistake. Children get into things. You know how it is.”

   I didn’t answer. Just let the silence fill the room. Abby adjusted her blouse like the quiet made her itch.

   “I’ve done everything I can for this family,” she added, voice tight now. “I’ve supported Frank through his breakdowns. Through his absences. It’s not easy being the only adult in the room.”

   I stared at her, then glanced at the file beside me. Photos. Notations. Audio transcripts.

   The only adult in the room?

   “Do you know why we asked you and your husband to be interviewed separately tonight?” I asked

   Her eyes flicked toward the door. Calculating.

   “To prevent confusion,” she answered.

   “To maintain integrity of information,” I corrected. “Because there are concerns. Because your son presented with signs of chronic exposure to excessive pyridoxine and a dangerous dose of Metaxalone.”

   She smiled. But it didn’t touch her eyes.

   “I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding.”

   “That’s why we investigate.”

   She leaned forward just slightly, voice sweet. “I’m just worried this whole situation could harm Frank’s recovery. He’s…fragile. Unstable. I don’t want to make things harder for him.”

   A quiet threat, wrapped in concern.

   I glanced back at my notes. Then lifted my pen again.

   “And where is your daughter, Millie, at this moment?”

   Abby blinked at the change in direction. “With a sitter. A trusted friend.”

   “Can you provide their name and contact information?”

   “Of course,” she said, a beat too quickly. “But I don't see what Millie has to do with this. She’s fine. Healthy.”

   “I ask about all children in the home,” I replied, “It’s standard. Just like this interview.”

   She nodded again, slower this time, as if recalculating her next step.

   I closed the folder. “Thank you, Mrs. Langdon. We’ll be in touch for any follow-up.”

   She stood with practiced ease, as though the world was her stage and she’d just delivered the performance of a lifetime. But I recognized the type—had faced them under the harsh glare of interrogation lights, watched them turn cold rooms into theaters of manipulation. I’d seen them in custody battles, where every word was a weapon, and in depositions, spinning threads of half-truths laces with perfectly timed tears.

   Abby Langdon wouldn’t break. Breaking wasn’t in her design. She didn’t fight the current—she bent it, steering it in her direction with the precision of someone who knew how to make losing look like winning. She didn’t crack under pressure. She shifted under it.

[trishxtrix]

The Bench Across the Street

AO3

Part 1 | Previous | Part 17 | Next

Summary: What if Abby is hurting and forcing Frank to take benzos to “control” his ADHD?

What if few hours after the argument, Frank is brought to the ED on a brink of an overdose and some unexplainable injuries.

TW: Abuse, Overdose, Suicide Attempt

Tags: Dark!Abby | Frank whump | Frank-centric | Miscommunication | Abusive!Abby | abusive relationships | threats of violence | implied/reference child endangerment | is this considered AU? | spousal abuse | men can be victims of abuse too

———————————————————

Mia 

Lights. The one thing I had to get used to after working in dark and barely lit places. ER lights always felt too bright. They seared into my skull, humming with that high-pitched whine only hospitals seemed to perfect—like the walls themselves were buzzing with tension. 

I focused on the teenager in front of me, trying to stay grounded. A deep laceration along his forearm, already irrigated, now ready for sutures. My hands moved as they always had—competent, practiced, automatic. But my head wasn’t here. Not really.

The peds room had taken camp in my brain. Frank. Tanner. Abby. The collapsing illusion of their family and memories from my past that clawed its way up without my permission.

I asked the boy if he played sports. He said football—I think. I nodded. Smiled. My lips curved up, but my stomach was hollow. I stitched him up like I was threading the very seams of my own unraveling life. Every loop of thread pulling taut a memory I couldn’t suppress: Frank sitting on my couch, clutching a cup of coffee like it was the only thing tethering him to this world. Abby’s carefully modulated voice, too sweet to trust. Rooms that smelled like fear and vodka and sometimes wet dogs, because the table you were working on was meant for animals, not men who’d taken bullets. Who’d begged me not to let them die. 

My hands had stitched more criminals that I could count. I’d saved lives that other people wanted buried. I remembered ducking beneath flickering lights at the vet clinic, an emergency call from someone too desperate to risk a hospital. Sometimes they came alone. Sometimes they were dragged in, bleeding and snarling. Sometimes they threatened me with the very knife I used to open the suture kit.

I remembered taping my own ribs one-handed in a back room because I couldn’t go to the ER without raising suspicion. I remembered washing someone’s blood off my forearms and then walking into a grocery store, smiling at an old woman who told me I looked tired. I remembered biting down on a towel while disinfecting a split lip from a man I’d help two months prior—because he didn’t like the way I looked at him when he whimpered.

And now here I was. Back under the hospital lights. Still pretending nothing touched me. Hands still perfectly steady.

The curtain shifted. Cynthia.

She didn’t need to speak; I saw it all in her face. That professional mask couldn’t hide the storm behind her eyes. SHe’d just come from the interviews, and the weight she carried made my hands pause mid-stitch. I gave the rest to Samira. Didn’t say a word. My legs were already moving.

“Walk with me?” she asked quietly.

We left the trauma bay behind, slipping into the lit hallways like ghosts. My pulse echoed in my eyes, drowning out the shuffle of our shoes. The hallway was quiet in the way hospitals are never truly still—background noise humming like a second heartbeat. I had the sense something was about to crack wide open.

“I finished with Abby,” she said after a long pause.

I glanced sideways. “How bad?”

“She’s doubling down. Presenting herself as the picture of maternal concern. Redirecting blame onto Frank at every turn. Subtle, but consistent. Practiced.”

I clenched my jaw. “Of course. And Frank?”

Cynthia sighed, her face softening. “Devastated. He didn’t know about the supplements. He was blindsided. And terrified. It goes without saying that I believe him.”

“He wouldn’t hurt Tanner.” I said without hesitation.

“Confirmatory tox screen is due in less than half an hour,” she added.

A rush of air left my lungs. Everything would change when those results hit. One way or another. The waiting clawed at me.

“We need to be ready. Abby won’t go quietly,” Cynthia noted.

I pictured Abby’s eyes—how they smiled without warmth. How she could command a Frank without ever raising her voice. How she left Frank questioning himself until he was raw and hollow. I had seen that exact look in courtrooms before, under fluorescent lights and fake tears.

“She’ll go down clawing,” I murmured.

As we rounded the corner, Jack stepped away from Shen and Ellis. His face carried more lines than usual, furrowed in concern. He looked at me like I might crack.

“You okay?”

I nodded, but it wasn’t convincing. “Working through it.”

“We just saw the DV alert in Tanner’s file. It went through system-wide. Flagged him. Flagged Frank. I wanted to come to you first, before anyone starts gossiping. We’ll keep it tight.”

The weight lifted slightly. That is one problem solved. It really was just a system failure.

“He’s not alone, you know,” he added. “If he needs back up, if you need backup we’re here. All of us. Even the interns.”

Emotions caught in my throat. I bit it down. Not here.

“He needs support,” I said “Not judgement. Just…a little faith.”

Jack reached out and briefly squeezed my shoulder. “He’s got it. From me. From all of us. We believe him.”

I nodded and hoped that would still matter after the details came out.

~~~~~~~

Frank

The peds room was too quiet. The hum of machines, the muted beep of the heart monitor, the soft shuffle of nurses’ steps in the hall—all of it faded into the background as I sat beside my son. Tanner’s face was peaceful in a way that made my skin crawl. Too still. HIs breathing was shallow but even. I watched it like it might stop at any second. My hand covered his, careful not to press too hard.

I’d memorized every inch of this room. The animals. The IV line that hummed beside me. I tried to focus on that. Anything but the screaming voice in my head.

You should’ve known. The words looped like a noose in my mind.

I thought of the past week. Every morning drop-off. Every rushed evening. Every time I caught him stumbling or rubbing his eyes and thought he was just tired or growing.

I should’ve known.

I should’ve looked harder.

The guilt lodge in my ribs, sharp and unbearable. It was more than guilt—it was grief for every moment I missed, every warning I dismissed.

And Abby—she had sat across from me in our kitchen and told me it was nothing. Had said it was just vitamins. Something harmless. I’d asked once, early on. She brushed it off. Called me paranoid. Said I always undermined her parenting. 

The same woman who was now sitting on the other side of the room., with her perfectly concerned face and carefully measured words. She looked like a grieving mother. She played the role so well. 

And maybe if I didn’t know her, I’d believe her too. 

The door opened and a nurse stepped in. She glanced between us, then gently replaced Tanner’s IV bag before slipping back out. I exhaled. The silence returned.

Abby looked up from her seat. “He looks better, don’t you think?”

I didn’t answer.

She continued anyway. Touching Tanner’s arm, brushing his hair. Her eyes never met mine. “I've been praying he wakes up soon. It’s hard not knowing what’s going on in his little head.”

“Poor baby,” she whispered. “He must’ve been so overwhelmed.”

I bit my tongue. If I opened my mouth, I wouldn’t stop.

“We have to stay strong,” she said. “For him.”

I turned my eyes back to Tanner.

“You told me it was just multivitamins.”

Abby blinked. “That’s all I ever gave him.”

“And the Metaxalone?”

A pause. Too brief to be real.

“I have no idea where that came from. Are you saying you think I—”

“I’m saying it’s in his system,” I said flatly.

She looked at me, all wounded innocence. “You think I would do something to hurt my own child?” 

“I don’t know what to think anymore.”

She stood. She moved like a shadow, all silk concern and quiet restraint as she went around the bed. I stiffened.

She crouched beside me, lowering her voice. “You’re not well, Frank. You haven’t been well. You should take a step back from this—before someone gets hurt again.”

The implication burned.

I turned my head slowly and met her eyes. 

“You hurt him.”

Her smile didn’t falter. “You’ve always been so dramatic, Frankie.”

“Then why is there metaxalone in his system?”

“I don’t know. Maybe someone made a mistake. A nurse. Or maybe he got into something at school.”

I looked at her now. She looked sad. Concerned. The mask was flawless.

“You think I did this?!” I asked incredulously.

Her expression shifted into a pained smile as she stood. “I think you’ve been under a lot of stress, Frank.”

“Don’t. Don’t twist this. Not here.” I whispered, voice trembling. Begging.

She glances around, lowering her voice. “I’m not twisting anything. But people talk. You know they do. The incident. The hold. It all paints a picture. I just want us to look like we’re united.”

There it was. The threat behind kindness.

“You want me to stay quiet.”

“I just want you to survive this.”

I stood, forcing her to back off.

“You need to leave.”

“Or what? You’ll call security? You’ll make a scene?”

“Or I’ll make sure the truth comes out.”

She studied me for a moment, and then something in her expression shifted. Something colder. More sinister.

Then the door opened again.

~~~~~~~

Mia

I found Cynthia in the breakroom, hunched over a cup of stale coffee, the glow of her phone lighting her face. Her expression froze, breath catching mid-sip as her eyes scanned whatever update had just come through.

“Tox results are in,” she said without looking up. 

The words sent a jolt straight through my chest. I put my coffee down, untouched, and moved to her side.

She turned the phone toward me. Even in the dim lighting, the results were unmistakable.

“Pyridoxine levels are elevated,” she said. “Not borderline. Sustained, chronic exposure. And…” she hesitated, “Metaxalone confirmed. Single does. Recent. High enough to sedate a child. Potentially dangerous.”

My hand was already on my phone, pulling up the encrypted threads to Morales and Reeva. 

[MIA]: Confirmed tox. Sustained B6, high-dose Metaxalone. CPS protocol mandatory. Frank not informed yet—moving now. CPS rep requested. Pulled in a favor. He’s clean, can’t be bought. Will handle the case personally.

Cynthia stood. “We tell Frank now. He deserves that. And Mia—he will need you there.”

We moved quickly through the back hallway, heading toward the nurses’ station. Dr. Shah was already reviewing the chart on the terminal. His mouth set in a grim line.

“B6’s been building in his system for weeks,” he said, voice low and clipped. “Metaxalone’s recent. This wasn’t an accident.”

I nodded. “They’re still in peds?”

“Still,” he confirmed. “We’ll start there. You coming?”

“Yes.”

Each step towards that room felt heavier than the last. I didn’t know if Frank would break or harden when he hear it, but I knew it would be one of the two.

Shah went in first. Cynthia and I followed.

Frank and Abby were standing, face to face, by Tanner’s bed. His body was tense, jaw tight. Abby’s posture was all poised concern, but I caught the slight downturn of her lips when the door opened.

“We have the confirmatory tox screen results,” Shah announced.

Frank turned his head first, then his body. Slowly.

“Pyridoxine levels are elevated,” Shah explained. “Consistent with chronic exposure. Likely administered in small, sustained doses. Metaxalone has also been confirmed. Single high-dose. Administered recently—likely within the last twelve hours.”

Abby blinked, eyes flicking between the three of us. “Metaxalone? Isn’t that a muscle relaxant?”

“Yes,” Shah answered evenly. “And dangerous for pediatric patients. Tanner had no medical need for it. Which makes this a case of harmful exposure. As mandated by law and hospital policy, we’ve updated our report to CPS.”

Frank’s breath hitched. I watched as the line of his shoulders faltered. Abby’s face twisted into a delicate, practiced mask of disbelief.

A soft knock on the door drew all our attention. A man in his mid-thirties stepped inside—business casual, badge visible, clipboard already in hand. His presence was quiet but authoritative.

“I’m Deacon Krueger,” he introduced herself calmly. “Child Protective Services. I’ve been briefed and will be conducting interviews. Dr. Langdon, would you step with me and Ms. Dae to the family room, please?”

Abby immediately tensed. “Why him first?”

Cynthia met her eyes. “This isn’t about pointing fingers. It’s about protecting Tanner.”

Frank didn’t move for a moment. His hand hovered in the air, like he was unsure whether to reach for Tanner or let go. Then he stepped back.

He looked at me.

“I’ll be right behind you,” I said.

He nodded and followed Cynthia and Deacon out. I walked with them, closing the door behind us with quiet finality.

We moved down the corridor and into the hallway outside the family room.

“I thought this was for questions?” Frank asked, wary.

“It is,’ I said quietly. “But it’s also to give you space. Morales and Reeva have already been informed. They’re pushing to expedite the next steps. Your DV case gave them enough to act faster. You’re not alone in this, Frank.”

He exhaled shakily.

“And the CPS rep?”

“He’s another favor I called in,” I told him. “Deacon’s solid. Sharp. He doesn’t miss things. He doesn’t take bribes.”

Cynthia opened the door to the family room. Frank hesitated, then stepped inside. He didn’t sit until he was sure I was beside him. When he did, it was like the ground had finally dropped out beneath him.

Cynthia set her folder on the table and glanced at me. “You can stay for a while.”

Frank’s voice was barely a whisper. “Please.”

I stayed.

~~~~~~~

Frank

The family room was suddenly too bright. Too quiet. I sat in the corner, stiff-backed, hands clutching each other like they might fall apart without the pressure.

Deacon sat across from me, professional but calm. The kind of calm that made it clear he was here for the truth, not theatrics.

Cynthia nodded at him, then looked to me. “Frank, this is standard. It’s just a conversation about Tanner. It’s about safety. Just answer honestly.”

I nodded.

Deacon opened his folder. “Can you confirm you full name, date of birth, and your relationship to the child?”

I answered. Voice barely a rasp.

“Who is Tanner’s primary caregiver day to day?”

“Abby,” I said. “His mother. My wife. She…she’s with him more. I work full-time. Nights and doubles, mostly.”

“And what do you know about any medications, supplements, or substances Tanner was being given?”

I hesitated. “She said it was just multivitamins. Every time I asked more, she got defensive. Said I was undermining her parenting.”

Deacon didn’t react. Just noted it down.

“And the Metaxalone?”

“I had no idea. I swear. I would never…” My throat caught. I felt the burn behind my eyes.

He gave me space.

“Did you ever administer anything to Tanner yourself?”

“No. Never. I don’t even know what he gets in his lunch bags.”

Cynthia leaned forward slightly. “Frank, do you have any reason to believe Abby was harming Tanner intentionally?”

I swallowed. “I don’t want to believe it. But she threatened…”

I stopped.

“What did she threaten?” Deacon asked.

“She said…if I stopped taking the benzos she was giving me, the kids would end up in the ER. Like it was a promise.”

The words felt like acid.

Mia’s hand found mine.

Deacon scribbled something quickly, then asked “Have you noticed any changes in Tanner’s behavior over the past few weeks?”

“He was clumsy. Tired. Said his legs felt heavy. But I thought…I thought it was just growing. School stress. I didn’t want to see it.”

“You’ve been under duress yourself,” Cynthia said gently. “That’s not failure. That’s survival.” 

I shook my head. “It feels like failure.”

Mia’s grip tightened.

Deacon paused. “Frank, I have to ask this clearly. Do you feel Tanner is safe in Abby’s care?”

I didn’t answer right away. I looked down at my hands.

“No,” I whispered. “Not anymore.”

There was silence.

Then Mia shifted beside me.

“I’ve been gone too long,” she said softly. “I’m still on shift. But I’ll be nearby. I’ll come back.”

I nodded. Couldn’t say more.

She hesitated, then touched my shoulder.

“I believe you,” she said. “And I’m not the only one.”

Then she was gone.

And the room felt colder.

I didn’t realize I was crying until Deacon slid a box of tissues across the table.

“We’ll take it one step at a time,” he said. “And you don’t have to do it alone.”

I nodded slowly. Words wouldn’t come. Only the knot in my throat. Only the aching knowledge that I’d almost missed this. Missed saving my own son.

Cynthia stayed close, her presence solid. A silent reminder that someone still believed in me.

And I clung to that. 

Even as everything else cracked open.

~~~~~~~

Abby 

The hallway buzzed with the rhythm of the ER—monitors beeping, carts rolling, distant voices barking codes like clockwork. I stood at the far end near the vending machines, a styrofoam cup of tea cooling in my hand, untouched. No one looked at me directly, but I saw the glances. The tilt of heads, the way conversations hushed when I passed, the awkward silence that swelled then collapsed in ym wake like the air fleeing a vacuum.

They knew. Or they were starting to.

I spotted Mia through the glass divider—hoodie gone, stethoscope around her neck like a badge of self-righteousness. She moved with ease, confidence, certainty.The others gravitated toward her like moths circling a flame. I saw how they deferred to her. It made my skin crawl. Made my teeth clench behind a mask of practiced composure.

She was everywhere lately. Too everywhere.

I sipped my tea, lips barely touching the rim. Lukewarm. Tasteless. Like everything else here.

Then I heard it. A whisper from a too-young nurse walking past the breakroom.

“DV report—filed against her.”

Her. Not me. Not Abby Langdon. Just a pronoun. An accusation passed like gossip. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t gasp. My spine just straightened, slow and deliberate, like someone had pulled a string taut down the center of my back. A calm rolled through me, cool and sharp.

So this was it. He’d gone to them.

Frank finally crossed that line,

I turned slowly toward the corridor, letting my face fall just enough to suggest sorrow. One hand reached out to rest against the wall, fingers trembling—not from nerves, but from perfect control. The picture of a mother under siege. Let them see that. Let them pity me. Let them think I was the one betrayed.

Pity is a powerful thing.

Let them think I’m wounded. Let them offer me tissues and sad, apologetic glances. Let them whisper about how cruel it was Frank to do this now—while our son was still unconscious. Let them wonder what kind of monster he must be to turn on his wife like this.

But they don’t know. Not yet.

They don’t know what I have.

I’ve kept records. Screenshots. Emails that could twist any narrative to my favor. Voicemails that sound innocent unless you know what to look for. I know which day he didn’t chart properly. I know which nurses complained about his mood. The quiet conversations in stairwells. The missteps he’s made that I’ve cataloged with meticulous care. I know how to say just enough to cast doubt without ever telling a lie. 

Because I don’t lie. I suggest. I let them come to their own conclusions.

That’s always more effective.

Frank thinks he can take me down. That he can just walk back into this hospital and let the truth spill out of him like blood, and everyone will love him for it. He thinks they’ll believe him because he’s fragile and bruised and sad. Because he cries at the right moments and keeps company with the perfect savior—Mia Castellano, golden girl of the ER.

But here’s the thing Frank doesn’t understand: the world doesn’t root for the broken. It roots for survivors. And I’ve made damn sure that’s exactly what I look like.

Mia thinks she’s clever, that her calm face and quiet fire makes her righteous. But she doesn’t know what it’s like to need control, to hold it in your teeth like a knife because the alternative is ruin. She thinks I’m blind to her. But I see everything. 

I see the way she looks at him—like he’s someone worth saving. Like he’s some rare thing worth bleeding for.

And for that, she’ll pay too.

They think Frank is the victim here.

Let them.

I built my life on preparation. On always knowing more than the person across from me. 

Frank thinks he can take me down.

That I’ll let him paint me as the villain.

No.

Let CPS come.

Let them dig.

They’ll find exactly what I want them to find. A mother who looks exhausted but composed. A woman who stayed up late praying for her son’s progress. A wife who stood by her struggling husband until he broke.

They’ll see the scratches on my arms and wonder if I’m the one who’s been hurt. They’ll read the emails, the prescriptions, the carefully curated documents. And they’ll question what they thought they knew.

They’ll hesitate.

And that’s all I need.

Just a second of doubt.

Because once doubt enters the room, it doesn’t leave.

I will burn this place to the ground before I let him win.

And when the dust settles, I’ll still be standing.

I always am.

[trishxtrix]

The Bench Across the Street

AO3

Part 1 | Previous | Part 16 | Next

Summary: What if Abby is hurting and forcing Frank to take benzos to “control” his ADHD?

What if few hours after the argument, Frank is brought to the ED on a brink of an overdose and some unexplainable injuries.

TW: Abuse, Overdose, Suicide Attempt

Tags: Dark!Abby | Frank whump | Frank-centric | Miscommunication | Abusive!Abby | abusive relationships | threats of violence | implied/reference child endangerment | is this considered AU? | spousal abuse | men can be victims of abuse too

———————————————————

Mia

As soon as we stepped into the hallway, Cynthia touched my arm. 

“I’ll speak with Frank first,” she informed me. “Then Abby. Cleanest approach.”

“You’ve seen what she can do. You know how she works.”

“I do,” Cynthia nodded, her voice low but firm. “I won’t underestimate her.”

“Push if you need to,” I said. “She’ll try to redirect, manipulate. She always does.”

“I won’t give her the space.”

I nodded, and Cynthia turned towards the family room. I watch her disappear through the double door.

~~~~~~~

Frank 

I sat alone in the family room. My leg bounced uncontrollably. The room felt smaller. Sterile. It smelt like bleach and recycled air. Every second dragged like it was stretching out to punish me.

 I kept replaying every moment from the past week, wondering when I should’ve noticed Tanner was sick. What I missed. What I let happen.

Cynthia entered. Shut the door behind her and sat across from me, flipping open a legal pad. No judgment in her eyes. Just the kind of steady presence that made the air feel less like it was trying to choke me.

“Frank,” she started, voice gentle. “I know this isn’t easy, but we need to get it all on record. I’ve read Tanner’s intake form. But I need to hear about what is happening to Tanner from you. Whatever you tell me stays within protocol, but I want you to speak freely.”

I nodded, my throat dry.

“Tell me about the past week,” she said. “What have you noticed with Tanner?”

I told her  everything I could think of. The sluggish mornings. The bruises I’d brush off as playground accidents. His aversion to food. The nausea. The nights he fell asleep mid-sentence. I told her about the mornings where I’d try to talk to him and get nothing but a weak nod.

“And the supplements?”

I hesitated. “Abby was always into vitamins and supplements. She said it helped with focus. I never questioned it—maybe I should’ve. I should’ve pushed harder. I didn’t know about any current medications. She never told me about Metaxalone.”

Cynthia jotted that down, her pen moving with deliberate clarity.

“Did you ever see Abby give him anything?”

“Not in the past two weeks, no.” My voice cracked. 

“Did you ever suspect something was wrong?”

“Not like this. I thought maybe school was stressing him. Maybe he was tired. But I didn’t know. I didn’t know about vitamins or Metaxalone.”

“She didn’t tell you anything about Tanner needing supplements or prescriptions?”

“No. She handled all of that herself. She made me feel like I wasn’t involved enough, like questioning it would just make things worse. But I never would have agreed to—” My voice cracked. “I didn’t think she’d—”

“It’s not on you to have imagined the worst, Frank.”

“But I should have. She’d done it to me. I should have seen it.”

“And if you had?”

“I would’ve stopped it.” My voice dropped to a whisper. “I swear to god. I would’ve stopped it.”

Cynthia let the silence hang there, heavy and honest.

“What’s your biggest fear right now?” she ask

“That I failed him,” I answered honestly. “That it’s too late.”

She nodded slowly. “Thank you for being honest.”

“I thought I could keep them safe. Even from her. And I am wrong.” I confessed, barely above a whisper.

“You aren’t wrong,” Cynthia said. “You did what you could, but let’s be honest: did you ever feel like you could stop her?”

“No,” I whispered. “She would’ve twisted it. Told the kids I was trying to hurt them. She’d done it before.”

Cynthia looked at me for a long moment. “This isn’t your fault. We’re going to get you and Tanner the help you guys need.”

“I’ve wanted out,” I admitted, my voice breaking again, “But she’s got this way of making everyone believe it’s me. That I’m unstable. That I’m the dangerous one. Even when I filed the report, part of me still thinks that no one would believe it.”

“I do,” Cynthia said simply.

I looked at her, face full of everything I don’t deserve—grief, guilt, hope.

“What happens now?”

“I file the report. Update Reeva and Morales. I will also push for an emergency custody evaluation. The tox report, even if it’s just a preliminary, helps. So does your statement. So does the documentation you and Mia have been collecting.”

“She’ll fight it.”

“She’ll lose,” Cynthia said confidently.

By the time the interview was over, I felt like I had been scraped and flayed open from the inside.

~~~~~~~

Abby 

Control. 

It’s always about control.

I sat up straight in the plastic chair, legs crossed elegantly. The picture of maternal concern. I kept my hands folded in my lap and my chin slightly lifted. I knew how this worked. 

So I sat with perfect posture, hands folded neatly as I waited for the social worker.

She entered with a professional nod. “Thank you for your patience Mrs. Langdon. My name is Cynthia Dea and I am the ER social worker. This is not an interrogation. We’d just like to get a better understanding of the situation.”

“Of course,” I replied with a gentle nod. “I just want what’s best for Tanner.”

She sat down. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Tanner’s recent health.”

I smiled softly. “He’s been a little off. Some fatigue, some trouble focusing. I thought maybe a growth spurt, or stress.”

“Any supplements or medications?”

“Just B6,” I said. “A natural supplement. It helps with attention. Perfectly safe.”

“And the metaxalone?”

I blinked, slow and precise. “I don’t know where that came from. We don’t keep medications like that in the house.”

I watch her face. Looking for doubt. I saw it. Bareilly a flicker.

“I have to ask,” Cynthia started. “Is it possible someone else administered it?”

“I suppose…Frank’s been distracted lately. Distant. He’s exhausted. Maybe he mixed something up?”

Let it land. Let it stew.

I didn’t lie. I redirected.

Cynthia didn’t react. Just wrote.

“I’ve been trying to keep everything together,” I continued. “Tanner’s been more sensitive lately, and Frank—he’s been emotional. You know about the incident last week, right?”

“You mean the psychiatric hold?” she asked.

“I didn’t want to bring it up. But yes.” I sighed. “I love Frank. I do. But he hasn’t been stable. I’ve been doing everything I can.”

There. Let her chew on that.

I let silence settle, then leaned in just slightly.

“I’m afraid,” I whispered. “Afraid he’s not equipped to parent right now.”

Not a lie.

Not the truth.

Just enough shadow to obscure the shape of the real monster.

I imagined the words taking root. Doubt needs so little solid.

She thinks she’s gathering facts. But every word I offer her is a weapon I’ve already sharpened.

I’d been careful. The smoothies were unmarked. The B6 was over-the-counter. The metaxalone? That had taken effort, but it wasn’t traceable to me. Not directly. Frank’s a mess. I just needed him to look like what I already said he was.

I’d watched him unravel for months. All I had to do was give it a nudge.

And now? He was sitting in a room somewhere blaming himself. Mia would back him, of course. But they’d look too close. Too united. Cynthia would start to wonder who was manipulating who.

Let them.

I stood gracefully when the interview ended.

Let them doubt him.

Let them chase ghosts.

I’ll always be three steps ahead.

[trishxtrix]

The Bench Across the Street

AO3

Part 1 | Previous | Part 15 | Next

Summary: What if Abby is hurting and forcing Frank to take benzos to “control” his ADHD?

What if few hours after the argument, Frank is brought to the ED on a brink of an overdose and some unexplainable injuries.

TW: Abuse, Overdose, Suicide Attempt

Tags: Dark!Abby | Frank whump | Frank-centric | Miscommunication | Abusive!Abby | abusive relationships | threats of violence | implied/reference child endangerment | is this considered AU? | spousal abuse | men can be victims of abuse too

———————————————————

Frank

The lights had dimmed. Or maybe I’d just stopped noticing them.

The peds room mural wrapped around the room—foxes with cartoon smiles, deer with too wide eyes, bears waving. Cheerful in a way that felt cruel now.

Tanner hadn’t moved.

Not in hours.

He breathed, sure—shallow, rhythmic, stubborn. But his lashes stayed still against his cheek. His fingers limp. His mouth barely parted like he was about to ask something but forgot the words halfway through.

I sat in a plastic chair across from him, hands curled into fists, elbows on knees.

And Abby…

Sat by his side like she has been carved there.

Silent.

Perfect.

Composed.

She hadn’t spoken in at least twenty minutes. Just occasionally adjusted Tanner’s blanket, smoothest his hair, made a show of maternal care.

Even when her head is bowed. Even when her eyes were on Tanner.

I could feel her waiting.

And it was driving me crazy.

The beeping from the monitor has become my anchor. Each pulse, a second passing. Each silence, a warning.

I wanted Mia here.

God, I wanted her in the room—didn’t even need her to say anything.  Just exist in the same air as me. Something steady. Something safe.

She was still in the building.

I knew that.

But I want her here.

And I was unraveling.

I shifted in my seat.

Abby glanced at me. 

Just a flick of eyes.

But I caught it.

“Did you eat today?” she asked, voice soft.

I blinked.

“What?”

“You look pale,” she said. “Drawn. The psych hold didn’t do you any favors, did it?”

The words were too honeyed.

Too gentle.

“I’m fine.”

“You never were good at resting,” she continued. “Even before all of this.”

All of this.

Like she hadn’t been the one to light the match.

I look down at my hands.

They were shaking again.

“Frank,” she said gently, “you are not well.”

“I’m not the one in the hospital bed.”

She didn’t flinch. 

“Exactly,” she said. “So maybe focus on being strong. For him. Not getting worked up over things you imagine.”

I swallowed hard.

“Is that what you think this is?” I ask, quieter than I meant. “Imagination?”

She tilted her head. Didn’t answer.

Let it hang in the air like fog.

I stood up.

I couldn’t sit anymore.

Not with what Abby is not saying.

I walked to the window—nothing to see but the staff parking lot and the line of ambulance lights flashing blue rhythm across the room.

The glass was cool when I leaned against it.

Behind me, Abby adjusted Tanner’s pillow like nothing had been said.

Like I wasn’t fighting to keep my scream in my throat.

~~~~~~~

There was a knock.

Just once. Soft.

Mia stepped in like she’d always been part of the room. Like she belonged to the space between breath and noise. She wore her hoodie now half zipped, stethoscope looped once through her hand, expression unreadable but steady.

It took everything in me not to fold.

“Hey,” she greeted softly, directed to both of us, but her eyes paused on me just a fraction longer.

Abby looked up from her seat beside Tanner and gave a small, composed smile. Too composed.

“Oh. Mia. You’re on tonight?” She asked, with warmth that rang just slightly false.

“I am,” Mia affirmed evenly. “Frank called earlier, so I came in ahead of shift.”

Abby hummed. “Of course he did. You’re always around these days.”

There it was.

Too casual.

Too pointed.

Mia didn’t blink.

“Only when it matters,” she said.

That wasn’t sarcasm.

Abby’s smile twitched. Just a little.

“Well, it’s good that someone’s keeping track,” Abby murmured. “I’ve been so overwhelmed since…well. Everything.”

She reached for Tanner’s and gently brushed her fingers across his knuckles.

“He’s lucky to have so many people look out for him.”

I didn’t say anything.

I couldn’t.

Mia’s expression didn’t shift, but something about her stance locked in place – one foot slightly back, like she was resisting the urge to step further in the room.

“Dr. Shah will be in shortly,” she said, tone clipped but not sharp. “He’ll walk you through the next steps.” 

And then she looked at me.

Just me.

“You doing okay?”

I nodded once. Too fast.

“I’m here.”

Mia gave the faintest nod then she stepped out.

~~~~~~~

Mia

The soft beeping of monitors in the ER couldn’t muffle the weight in my chest. I stood near the nurses station, arms folded, jaw clenched, watching as Dr. Shah approached me with that quiet, careful gravity reserved for when things turned serious. He didn’t need to say a word. I saw the look on his face from across the room, and my chest clenched with dread. He met me halfway, chart in hand, eyes hard but not unkind.

“We have to talk.”

I followed him to the corner by the family rooms. And he handed me the printout. Pyridoxine: 92. Metaxalone: present, consistent with recent administration. Confirmatory testing pending. 

“It’s not technically at the acute toxicity threshold,” he murmured, “but the sustained elevation paired with centrally acting muscle relaxant in a child this age? That’s enough.”

I nodded, jaw tight. I already knew what came next.

“We have to notify CPS,” he said. “Protocol doesn’t give us wiggle room.”

“How are you delivering it?” I ask.

“Together,” he replied. “I want you there and the on duty ER social worker too.”

We both glanced down the hall. The peds room sat quiet. Abby hadn’t left Tanner’s side. Frank stood stiffly by the window, staring down at his own hands like it belonged to someone else.

I found Cynthia by the nurses station, quietly reviewing case files. She looked up as I approached, her gaze sharpening immediately.

“It’s time?” She asked.

“Shah’s about to go in. We need you in the room,” I said. “We’re giving them the preliminary results, and then you’ll take over with the standard protocol.”

She gave a small nod. “Any volatility expected?”

“Abby won’t react. Not right away,” I answered. “She’ll most likely go quiet first. Assess. Calculate. Frank—he’ll blame himself. That’s what worries me the most.”

Cynthia exhales. “We’ll be ready.”

We moved together down the hall, the three of us. I steadied myself with every step. I couldn't afford any hesitations.

~~~~~~~

Frank

Carla passed Mia on the way in, quiet as always, and handed me a folded printout without directly looking at Abby.

“Prelim tox,” she said. “Still waiting on confirmatory, but Dr. Shah thought you’d want the early panel.”

I nodded.

She left.

I didn’t open the page right away.

Because I already know what it would say.

Because I already felt it, sitting like weight at the base of my spine.

Abby sat a little straighter. 

“Is there something new?” She asked, voice all concerned. 

But I could hear the chill underneath.

Her grip on Tanner’s hand had tightened .

Just enough for me to notice.

I unfolded the paper.

Pyridoxine – 92

Metaxalone – present, consistent with recent administration.

Confirmatory testing pending.

I didn’t say anything.

I couldn’t say anything.

So I just shook my head.

“It’s…not bad, is it?” She asked.

She sounded like she wanted to be reassured. But something in the way she tilted her head made it seem like she was probing.

Like she already knew what it would say.

I didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

The numbers were still echoing in my head, low and steady, like a second heartbeat I couldn’t stop hearing.

Abby’s question hung in the air between us—weightless and weighted all at once. Her voice had asked for reassurance. Her posture had asked for something else.

I didn’t give her either.

I just looked at Tanner.

And then, mercifully, there was a knock.

Sharp. Clipped.

The door opened without waiting for a response.

Dr. Shah entered first – crisp, coiled, urgent in that barely-contained way of a man whose thoughts were three steps ahead of where his feet were. His face set in the kind of expression that didn’t offer room for interpretation – not cold, not unkind, but sharpened with urgency. Mia came in behind him, her presence quiet but solid, and Cynthia followed, her steps careful, as if measuring the emotional weather of the room.

Abby sat up straighter, but didn’t let go of Tanner’s hand.

“Oh,” she said, her voice pitched in surprise, “I didn’t expect—”

“Mrs. Langdon,” Dr. Shah interrupted gently, but firmly. “Frank. We need to go over what we’ve found.”

His eyes swept between us – professional, but alert. Mia positioned herself to the side, not inserting herself but close enough for me to feel anchored.

“We’ve reviewed Tanner’s preliminary labs,” Shah started. “His pyridoxine—B6—level is elevated to ninety-two – not immediately toxic, but concerning. Additionally, we found metaxalone in his system. A muscle relaxant.”

The words dropped one by one, slow and clear, like carefully placed weights.

Abby blinked. “But—is that dangerous?”

Shah’s gaze didn’t waver “In a child his age, any level of metaxalone outside of a clinical prescription is considered dangerous. It’s not a medication we expected to find under any circumstances.”

He let that sink in.

“It may have been recent – we’ll know more once confirmatory panels return in a few hours. But I need to be very clear, because of the controlled substance was detected, hospital protocols require us to notify Child Protective Services.”

Abby stiffened, but didn’t speak.

Not yet.

Cynthia stepped forward, her voice level and calm, practiced in the way that comes from years of delivering unwelcome news with compassion.

“This doesn’t mean assumptions are being made,” she explained. “But when a child comes in with unexplained substance in their system, CPS needs to perform a standard investigation. That includes interviews with parents and or guardians.”

“For clarity's sake,” Shah added, “we aren’t accusing anyone. But the system exists to protect the child until we understand what happened.”

I heard the words.

But I couldn’t process them all.

The room felt too small.

Abby leaned forward slightly. “Is this really necessary? Can’t this wait until the full tox panel is in?”

“No, ma’am,” Cynthia replied gently. “The law requires action the moment there’s reasonable concern. And I’m here to help make sure it’s done in the most humane and structured way possible.”

Abby looked between the three of them – Shah, Cynthia, and Mia – and I saw the moment she realized she was outnumbered. That she wouldn’t be able to pivot the narrative.

Not here.

Mia hadn’t said a word, but I felt her beside me.

Quiet. Steady.

She wasn’t here as a doctor now.

She was here for me.

I didn’t say anything

 Not because I didn’t have questions.

But because I didn’t trust myself to speak without unraveling completely.

And Abby, nodded with a tight smile, like she was suppressing indignation under the guise of composure. “Of course. Protocol.”

Cynthia spoke again. “We’ll need to speak to each of you separately, just to get a clear picture of what’s going on.”

“Separately?” I asked, already feeling like the ground beneath me was unsteady.

“It’s routine,” she said gently. “Just part of the process in situations involving dangerous substances.”

Mia met my eyes, calm and steady. She didn’t speak, just gave me the smallest nod. I clung to it like a lifeline.

[trishxtrix]

The Bench Across the Street

AO3

Part 1 | Previous | Part 14 | Next

Summary: What if Abby is hurting and forcing Frank to take benzos to “control” his ADHD?

What if few hours after the argument, Frank is brought to the ED on a brink of an overdose and some unexplainable injuries.

TW: Abuse, Overdose, Suicide Attempt

Tags: Dark!Abby | Frank whump | Frank-centric | Miscommunication | Abusive!Abby | abusive relationships | threats of violence | implied/reference child endangerment | is this considered AU? | spousal abuse | men can be victims of abuse too

———————————————————

Mia 

I saw her the moment she stepped through the ER doors.

Abigail Langdon.

The picture of performance: hair smoothed, coat draped just right, shoulders tight but not too tight. She walked like someone who expected to be let in—to be obeyed.

She moved towards the peds room.

And Frank, gods help him, let her in.

I didn’t go after her.

Just told Frank I had calls to make and left.

1 message to three people.

[MIA]: Abby is in peds with Frank and Tanner. No escalation yet. 

Morales replied first.

[CPT. ANA MORALES]: Could it be poisoning?

[CPT. ANA MORALES]: Something slipped into his food? Meds?

[CPT. ANA MORALES]: I’ll pull school logs. See if there’s any gaps or changes in routine.

My jaw tightened.

[MIA]: He collapsed after snack. Teacher mentioned symptoms all week. They’re running basics.

Reva’s reply came next

[REEVA MORROW]: Frank’s case is filed. Investigation is active. System should’ve flagged Tanner’s case. I’ll escalate.

My fingers hovered the screen for a beat too long before I replied.

[MIA]: No alert. Dr. Shah is treating him. I’ll speak to him directly.

Cynthia, last.

[CYTHIA DEA]: I’m on ER shift tonight. I’ll come in early. 

I found Dr. Shah outside radiology, flipping through the latest CT reads. 

He greeted me with a nod, eyes tired but focused. 

“Dr. Castellano.”

“We need to talk. Privately.”

His eyes sharpened. We stepped into an alcove near a storage room.

I kept my voice low, direct.

“There’s an open domestic violence case against Abby Langdon. The kids are tied to it. That child—Tanner—should’ve triggered an alert the second he was triaged.”

He froze, then flatly said “That didn’t happen.”

“No it didn’t.”

He muttered something under his breath – a curse maybe – and slammed his tablet shut.

“I’ll escalate it to admin and security. I’ll oversee his labs personally. I want his vitals checked every hour. No tech unsupervised in that room.”

I nodded.

He didn’t slow down.

“I want tox screen expedited, extended pannels approved. If this is exposure—if this is ingestion—it’s not gonna wait for a committee sign off.”

He turned on his heel and was gone before I got to say thank you.

I walked past the break room when Robby fell into step beside me.

Not rushed.

Not demanding.

Just tired.

“You’ve been here awhile,” he started. “You still on shift tonight?”

I nodded.

He looked like he wanted to say something more—like he didn’t know where to start.

Finally,

“Is he okay?”

I didn’t answer right away.

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly, “he’s still standing. That’s all I’ve got.”

Robby exhaled through his nose.

“I got pulled aside this morning,” he revealed after a beat.” “Detectives. Questions about Frank. The overdose. His shift that day. Everything.”

I stayed still.

He looked over at me.

“You were right that night,” he confessed. “He did deserve five minutes. I didn’t give him two.”

~~~~~~~ 

I’d just finished clocking in for my night shift when I saw Dana heading toward me in the locker room, coffee in hand, badge already clipped off, exhaustion written into every inch of her posture.

Twelve hours on your feet doesn’t leave much for pretense.

We didn’t wave.

She came straight toward me, quiet and deliberate.

“I’m heading out,” she stated, voice lows

I nodded, brows furrowed.

Then she stopped just beside me—shoulder to shoulder—and leaned slightly, like she didn’t want anyone else to hear.

“I don’t like the air in that room.”

I didn’t have to ask which room.

I knew she meant the peds room.

She meant Abby and Frank.

Dana’s voice dropped even lower.

“I've been in a lot of rooms with scared people. Panicked ones. Angry ones.”

A pause.

“That room’s full of fear. But it’s not coming from the kid.”

I didn’t look at her when I answered.

“I know.”

She shifted her back higher on her shoulder. Took a breath like she wanted to say more but thought better of it.

Then as she turned:

“You’re staying close, right?”

I nodded, “Not going far.”

Dana didn’t say goodbye. Just gave me one last look – the kind that says I trust you to keep watch.

Then she walked right out into the night.

‘People, I have been helping him before any of you knew anything.’ I thought, angry as I grabbed my emergency scrubs out of my locker.

~~~~~~~

The shift hasn’t even fully turned over and already the board is humming.

I looked up at it whilst sipping one of the stalest cup of burnt coffee I’ve had in my life. My body was tired, but my mind had already clicked into place.

This place was my sanctuary. 

Here, I could forget about everything.

Compartmentalize.

Breathe in codes.

Exhale judgments.

Jack was already behind the central nurses station, bent over one of the computers, posture perfectly straight. The kind of calm that came from seeing war zones, not just over crowded trauma bays.

“Castellano,” he greeted, glancing up without missing a beat in his chart review.

“Abbot,” I returned.

We didn’t do small talk. Sometimes I think it’s because he can tell I’ve done questionable things in my life. But as time went on, it just turned out we didn’t need the small talk.

Shen was posted under the board, one hand nursing a half-empty cup of Dunkin’ iced coffee, the other scrolling through patients notes on the tablet. Three months into being an attending and he moved like he’d already done three years. 

“Good evening, Mia,” he greeted, glancing my way. “You look like you’ve been through a shift already.”

“Try watching one from the inside.”

“Oof,” he grunted. “How bad?”

“Bad enough that I’m not in the mood for small talk.”

“Good,” Shen said, dryly. “I’m more of a medium talk guy anyway.”

I cracked the smallest smile.

“You’re with me tonight.”

“Perfect,” he replied, “I’ve been meaning to see how long I can stay in your orbit before I get vaporized.”

Ellis rolled up with two coffees and the kind of swagger that only comes from making out of a four-code shift and still having lip gloss on.

“No major traumas yet. That’s either a trap or a cosmic oversight.”

“Don’t tempt the board,” I warned.

“The board can try me,” she said, grinning. “I’ve got two coffees, one epi pen, and a sacrificial new attending on standby.”

Shen lifted his coffee cup.

“I resent being sacrificed without a meeting first.”

“You weren’t invited to the meeting,” Ellis retorted.

“I see how it is.” Shen drawled.

 Walsh was down from surgery, leaned against bay 4’s doorway, checking the consult log like it owed her money while muttering about day shift and their slow lazy asses.

Jack glanced over at her.

“Nice of the Navy to lend us their second string.”

Walsh didn’t even flinch. “At least I didn’t leave my leg overseas.”

“That’s because the navy leaves their hearts instead.”

“Cute,” she said, pushing off the doorframe, “tell me when your trauma count catches up to my laparotomies.”

I let the banter wash over me.

I needed it. 

The board updated with three new cases: febrile seizure, non-accidental ingestion, and one classic appendicitis. Low acuity. For now.

Then I saw Dr. Shah crossing the hall toward me, lab sheet in hand, brows drawn together like a knot pulled too tight.

He didn’t waste time.

“Tanner Langdon’s second labs just came in.” 

I set the cup down.

“Show me.”

He pass me the sheet, creased down the middle. I scanned it quickly – CMP holding steady. LFTs creeping up. ABG within range but trending abnormal. 

“Pyridoxine,” I murmured, “92?”

He nodded, “Elevated. Not redline, but flagged.” 

“Still under the acute toxicity threshold,” I said. “But elevated enough to raise eyebrows.”

“Tox is still pending,” he added, “I included metaxalone, carisoprodol, cyclobenzaprine.”

“Vitals?”

“Slow but stable. Still no neurological change.”

I kept my expression level.

“I want a neuro consult queued before midnight.” 

Shah nodded then hesitated.

“The system didn’t flag the case,” he admitted.

I froze for a beat.

“It didn’t?”

“No DV alert tied to Frank’s personnel file. Security is reviewing the integration lapse. We’re calling it a system failure for now.”

“It could be more than that.”

Shah exhaled sharply.

“Should I escalate?”

I met his eyes.

“Not yet.”

He waited.

“Let the results come in,” I added. “Let the story finish its sentence.”

He didn’t push.

“I’ve seen too many cases where people missed it because the data didn’t scream loud enough.”

My voice was low, “Then we don’t wait for a scream.”

He nodded once—hesitantly—slowly folding the lab sheet in half again.

Behind me Ellis was telling Shen some story that made him blink twice but not react.

Jack was leaning on the counter, already reassigning beds.

Walsh was already gone, most likely following a consult.

I turned back to the valley of death.

[trishxtrix]

Listen, sometimes a ship is less about wanting them to kiss or have sex or whatever, and more about needing them to be so endlessly intertwined and connected to the point where they might as well be one creature.

[trishxtrix]

The Bench Across the Street

AO3

Part 1 | Previous | Part 13 | Next

Summary: What if Abby is hurting and forcing Frank to take benzos to “control” his ADHD?

What if few hours after the argument, Frank is brought to the ED on a brink of an overdose and some unexplainable injuries.

TW: Abuse, Overdose, Suicide Attempt

Tags: Dark!Abby | Frank whump | Frank-centric | Miscommunication | Abusive!Abby | abusive relationships | threats of violence | implied/reference child endangerment | is this considered AU? | spousal abuse | men can be victims of abuse too

——————————————————————————————————

Frank

“It’s Langdon’s son.”

The world tilted sideways.

I didn’t move. 

Couldn’t. 

It took a full second—maybe two—for the words to hit.

Langdon’s son.

Tanner.

My Tanner. 

Someone called out for the trauma bay to be cleared. Nurses started moving faster, shouting for peds consults and crash cart. 

The noise in the ER sharpened and blurred all at once. 

I was still standing there, coffee dripping from my hand, forgotten on the floor, when Dana appeared by my side. “Frank,” she said quietly, touching my elbow. “Go.” 

That broke me loose.

I ran.

~~~~~~~

The ambulance bay doors swing open with a crash.

The gurney wheeled through. Small form strapped down, oxygen mask covering most of his face, pale arms limp at his sides.

Tanner.

Tiny. Motionless.

The paramedics rattled off numbers as they pushed him into the trauma bay.

BP 72/38

HR 50s

RR 13 and shallow.

“Collapsed after snack time. Teacher reports clumsiness, weakness over the past week. Down for about 3 minutes before EMS arrival. Oxygen saturations in the low 80s. Glucose normal. No witnessed seizure activity.”

I moved without thinking—snapping gloves on, shoving past the nurse reaching out for the monitors.

I had to touch him.

I had to be sure that he was still breathing.

“Langdon!” Robby’s voice, cutting through the chaos. 

I didn’t stop.

I squeezed Tanner’s tiny wrist between my fingers, felt the sluggish thud of his pulse.

“Langdon!” Robby barked again, stepping in front of me.

I tore my eyes off Tanner long enough to glare at him. 

“You know you can’t,” Robby said, quieter now. “You know you have to step back.” 

The rules.

The stupid, goddamn rules. 

I stared at him, breathing like I’d ran a marathon. 

Logic warred with instincts, hot and brutal.

I could save my son.

I could fix him.

If I just—

No.

No you can’t.

You’re not his doctor.

You're his father.

Slowly, mechanically, I peeled off the gloves. Dropping them on the floor. Stumbling backward, feeling like I’d been ripped out of my own skin. 

Dr. Shah had already arrived—peds attending, PICU trained and steady as stone—took my place immediately, issuing orders, seamlessly taking over the case. “Two litters by weight, wide open please!” Shah ordered, “Start second line access. Blood draws for labs—CBC, CMP, ABG, LFTs. Someone call CT. We need to get his head checked. Can we also get radiology in here for x-ray, please? Add an ECG to the order. ”

He wasn’t shouting.

He wasn’t panicking.

The team around him moved efficiently.

Doing everything right.

Doing everything I should have been doing. 

Tanner’s teacher hovered near the door, crying into her hands. 

I didn’t hear a word she said.

I fumbled my phone out of my pocket. 

Mia. 

I had to call Mia.

It rang once.

Twice.

“Frank?” She answered, immediate and alert.

“It’s Tanner,” I rasped, voice breaking. “Collapsed. Bradycardic. Hypotensive. I—Mia, please.”

“I’m coming.” 

I didn’t have anything left to say. I just stood there, watching the team work over my son. 

~~~~~~~

They were clearing him out of the trauma bay when I saw her.

Mia.

She was wearing hoodie and sweats, hair pulled back in rough twists, moving fast but sharp, eyes sweeping around the ER.

She caught sight of me, frozen just outside the peds room they’d just wheeled Tanner in. 

Her steps barely slowed. She didn’t call my name. Didn’t ask questions. Just brushed her knuckles against my sleeve, steady and sure.

“Come here,” said said quietly, steering me towards the peds room. The walls were painted in bright cartoon forest scenes. Foxes curled under the tree. Bears smiling from behind the bushes. Deer with wide, glassy eyes.

It should have been comforting.

It made my stomach twist.

The nurse was adjusting the fluids.

The portable monitor beeping sluggishly. 

The tech was setting up the mobile x-ray as we stood just inside the door. 

Dr. Shah scanned through the early blood work orders, typing quick notes. 

“Vitals still unstable but improving slightly with fluids. Oxygen holding at 90%. Well start with basic pannels and imaging before considering expanded tests.”

I clung onto the doorframe, watching every twitch of Tanner’s body under the blanket. 

Mia stayed by my side, arms crossed, calm as stone. Holding me in place when the world wanted to tear itself open.

Mia guided me to a chair shoved by the foot of the bed.

Not speaking.

Just pressing me down with one hand on my shoulder until I sat, knees wide, elbows on thighs, hands dangling uselessly between them.

I stared at the floor.

At the pattern of cheap tiles, scuffed and dirty.

At the rubber wheels of the IV pole.

anywhere but Tanner.

Because looking at Tanner would break whatever scraps were holding me together.

The clock on the wall ticked loud and slow.

Every second scratched too long.

Every breath scraped raw against my ribs.

Mia sat next to me, close enough to feel the heat of her body, solid and still.

She didn’t speak.

She didn’t move.

She just stayed.

An anchor in a storm too big to survive.

~~~~~~~

A nurse came and went, checking the monitors.

Another tech drifted in with the portable ECG, electrodes sticking to Tanner’s tiny chest like spider legs.

The beep of his heart echoed through the room.

Too slow.

Too fragile.

~~~~~~~

I didn’t know how long we sat like that.

Thirty minutes?

Ten minutes?

Time lost meaning when every second weight a thousand pounds.

I didn’t speak.

Mia didn’t push.

The only thing moving in the room was the slow, sluggish drip of fluids into my son’s veins.

~~~~~~~

The door creaked open.

I didn’t look up.

I couldn’t.

But I heard Robby’s footsteps crossing the tiles.

He cleared his throat once—awkward and brittle. “Mia,” he said first, like he wasn’t sure who he was speaking to, “Frank.” 

Mia tilted her head acknowledging him.

I stayed silent.

Robby shifted his weight

“The hospital contacted Abby,” he started quietly. “Standard procedure. The school also called her too, before we even got the ambulance report.” 

The words hit like a punch to the gut.

Of course they had. 

Of course.

I stared at the tile a little harder, willing it to crack open and swallow me.

Robby lingered like he might say more. Then he gave up and left, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft click.

~~~~~~~

Mia stayed with me.

Waited.

She didn’t offer comfort.

She knew better than that.

She knew there was no comfort left.

Only the waiting.

Only the dread.

~~~~~~~

The bloodwork came back next. 

Dana came into the room, holding the tablet containing Tanner’s chart.

I stood up, barely stopping myself from snatching the tablet from her hands.

CBC – normal.

CMP – normal except slight hyponatremia.

LFTs – mild transaminitis.

ABG – mild metabolic acidosis.

ECG – normal sinus rhythm, slow but stable.

No answers.

Nothing that explained why my son was lying unconscious in a bed under painted trees. 

I gave the tablet back.

My legs gave out a second later.

I dropped back into the chair.

Mia moved closer—but not touching—but close enough that I could feel her breathing alongside mine.

The door stayed closed.

The machine kept beeping.

The walls pressed closer.

Every cartoon fox. Every smiling bear. 

Watching.

Waiting.

The air felt too thick to breathe.

I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to stop the burning.

Trying to stop the scream building low in my throat. 

Trying to survive the next second.

And the next.

And the next.

Because if I stopped even once. 

I knew I’d never start again.

~~~~~~~

I didn’t want to leave the room. 

Every cell in my body told me to stay planted next to Tanner’s bed, to watch the slow rise and fall of his chest, to measure the gap between each monitor beep like I could predict what would happen next.

But I still had my job to do. I’m still part of the ER team until 16:00.

And even if I wasn’t cleared to treat my son. I still had to do my shift handoff.

So I stood in the hallway outside the peds room, barely upright, going through the motions while Samira reviewed the final updates on the triage board.

I nodded at the appropriate times.

Maybe.

I think.

I honestly couldn’t hear half of what she said.

My eyes kept darting back towards the peds room behind her.

Every breath felt like a countdown.

Samira was kind about it—gentle even—but I could see the discomfort in her eyes.

She knew.

Everyone knew.

That my son was on the other side of that glass door.

She reached the end of the board and paused, tapping softly on the tablet. “That’s everything,” She said softly, “I’ve got everything from here.” 

I nodded, swallowing down whatever the hell was caught in my throat. 

“Thanks.”

She didn’t say anything else.

Just gave me a careful look and turned down the hall.

I barely had the time to breathe before I heard the echo of fast steps coming up the hallway. 

I turned already knowing.

Already feeling it in my gut.

And there she was.

Abby.

Coat flung open, shoes loud against the tiles, purse bouncing at her hip.

I didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

Just stared at the glass door of the peds room, where Tanner lay still under too many wires.

And waited for her to reach me.

She spotted me the moment she turned the corner.

Her face tightened immediately. Not grief. Not worry.

Something colder. Sharper.

“What the hell happened?” She snapped as soon as she was close enough.

I stepped forward, blocking the door out of instinct—a move so small, so quick, I barely knew I was doing it until we were shoulder to shoulder.

She stopped abruptly, eyes narrowing.

“I should’ve been called the moment it happened,” she hissed “Why didn’t you call me?” 

My hand was on the door handle.

Not turning it.

Not letting it go.

She reached for it, but I didn’t move.

“Abby.” I said, voice too thin.

She paused.

A flicker of suspicion passed through her face.

And in that single beat, I realized just how badly I didn’t want to be alone in that room with her. How much of me still didn’t know what she is capable of. And just how terrifying that is to truly admit.

“Frank,” she started slowly, “move.”

“He’s barely stable,” I managed. “They’re running tests. They’re—he’s okay for now.”

She stared at me like I was speaking a different language.

“He’s my son,” she snapped. “Let me in.”

“I’m not stopping you.” My hands tightened around the handle, contradicting the words. “I just–need you to be calm, Abby. Don’t make this about us. Just be his mom.” 

There was a moment

A breath of silence between us, just long enough for the air to thicken.

Then she nodded once, too sharp to feel genuine.

“I’m always his mom.”

I stepped back.

Let the door open slowly.

Abby entered the room without another word and went straight to Tanner’s bedside.

I didn’t follow her in.

I couldn’t.

I hovered near the threshold, caught between panic and disbelief, every inch of my body poised to intervene if she so much as shifted the wrong way.

Abby leaned down over Tanner’s bed, brushed his hair from his forehead and whispered something I couldn’t hear. 

She didn’t scream.

Didn’t lash out.

Not yet.

But I watched her with the kind of attention I usually reserved for unstable trauma patients.

Waiting for a sign of escalation.

Waiting for something to crack.

Mia’s voice came softly behind me, “I need to step out. Make some calls.”

I turned toward her, barely able to nod.

She lingered for a beat longer than necessary. Eyes sweeping Abby. Then me.

Then she left, the door hissing quietly shut behind her.

And I was alone.

With Abby.

With the pressure in my chest mounting like a collapsed lung.

It wasn’t long after Mia had left that I felt the air shifted.

I could still hear her steps echoing down the hallway, then nothing. Just the quiet buzz of machines, the beep of the monitor, the near silent his of Tanner’s oxygen.

And Abby, sitting perfectly still beside him, like she’d never moved from that spot. 

She adjusted his blanket softly.

Methodically.

Like it was something she had done a hundred of times— like there were eyes watching and she needed to be seen doing the right thing.

She didn’t look at me when she spoke.

“You must’ve been so scared.” 

I blinked. 

Wasn’t sure if it was a question or a trap.

I gave her nothing.

She turned just slightly, enough to just glance over her shoulder.

“I know I was.” She added. “When the school called. My heart just dropped. I was already halfway out the door before they even finished the sentence.” 

Still watching me.

Waiting for something.

“Did he seem off to you this week? Before this?” She asked, voice light.

I swallowed.

Hard.

“I didn’t really–he was with you.”

Her smile was small.

Too small.

“Right,” she said, nodding slowly, “of course.”

She turned back to Tanner. 

Brushed his hair from his forehead with the back of his hand again.

“I guess he didn’t mention anything to you. About not feeling well. Or being dizzy. Or tired.”

I couldn’t tell if she was asking or accusing.

My throat was dry.

“No,” I said. “He didn’t say anything to me.” 

“Strange,” she murmured. “He usually tells you everything, doesn’t he?” 

My stomach twisted.

She kept her eyes on Tanner, her voice soft and syrupy.

“They said he collapsed after snack time. That he’d been acting clumsy, weak, off. All week.” 

Her fingers played with the cuff of his hospital gown.

“I guessed you missed it.”

I flinched.

Just barely.

But she saw it.

Of course she did.

Her smile returned—barely a curve of her mouth.

“I mean, I don’t blame you,” she said. “You’ve been under a lot of stress. You were even—what was it? Admitted for seventy-two hours?” 

I felt heat crawl up my neck.

My heart pounded too fast.

She stood up slowly, like she was rising from something sacred.

“I only bring it up because maybe…you’re not seeing things clearly. That happens sometimes. After something like that.”

She moved towards me.

Not quickly.

Not threatening.

Just enough to close the space.

She lowered her voice, pitched it like a secret between old friends. 

“And I know how much you love him. I do. So if you're worried—if you think something happened—you should tell someone. You should be honest.”

I opened my mouth, but the words died there.

She reached out.

Touched my arm, gentle as wind.

“And if it was something at school,” she added, “or even something he got into at our place—no one would blame you.”

That was it.

That was the knife.

Wrapped in silked.

Pressed just deep enough to make me bleed.

I stepped back.

Barely breathed.

“I didn’t—“ my voice cracked, “I would never—“

She nodded, serene.

“I know,” she said, “but you’ve been…struggling. We both know that.”

She turned back toward the bed.

Sat down again.

Took Tanner’s hand like it belonged to her.

And smiled like she hadn’t dismantled me with a dozen perfectly measured words.

The room was still vibrating with what she said. 

The sound of her voice clung to the corners like smoke.

I stood frozen by the sink, one hand gripping the counter so tightly my knuckles burned. Tanner’s monitor beeped on—slow and steady—but my own pulse was too fast. 

She didn’t say I did it.

She didn’t have to.

She said enough to plant the seed, coat it in sympathy, and leave me to drown in the silence that grew from it.

Then-

A knock.

Soft.

The door creaked open.

“Hey,” Dana said, stepping in with her usual calm, like a storm could never touch her. “I’ve got to grab the second round of labs. CT’s holding. Result’s not back yet.”

Her voice was casual.

But her eyes-

Her eyes moved like scalpels.

She looked at Tanner first, then me.

Paused for just a second longer than usual.

Then shifted her gaze to Abby—sitting upright, a little too composed, like she knew how to sit in grief but not feel it.

Dana’s mouth pressed into a neutral line.

“Frank,” she said gently, “Mind giving me a hand real quick?”

I blinked.

She wasn’t asking for help.

She was giving me an out.

Abby straightened.

“Oh- do you need him?” She asked quickly. “I’d…I’d rather not be alone right now. Frank’s his father. And I’m scared. I haven’t even gotten to speak to the doctor treating our son yet.”

Her voice just trembled—just enough.

Not too much.

Practiced.

Polished.

Dana raised an eyebrow.

Didn’t speak for a second.

Then turned to me.

“You can stay,” she said. “Up to you. Just thought I’d check.”

The offer sat there.

Thick in the air.

I looked at Abby—sitting like a glass doll perfectly arranged.

And at Dana—waiting, quiet, knowing.

My voice barely worked.

“I’ll stay,” I answered because I didn’t know what would happen if I left.

Dana nodded.

But she didn’t drop it.

Her eyes locked on mine for a moment longer.

Not pushing.

Just steady.

Seeing.

Then she turned back to the bed, snapping gloves on as she prepped the vials.

Abby leaned in and brushed her thumb over Tanner’s hand again, like she was painting the image of a mother.

But Dana didn’t look at her again.

She only looked at me.

And I knew—

She’d seen it.

All of it.

[trishxtrix]

The Bench Across the Street

AO3

Part 1 | Previous | Part 12 | Next

Summary: What if Abby is hurting and forcing Frank to take benzos to “control” his ADHD?

What if few hours after the argument, Frank is brought to the ED on a brink of an overdose and some unexplainable injuries.

TW: Abuse, Overdose, Suicide Attempt

Tags: Dark!Abby | Frank whump | Frank-centric | Miscommunication | Abusive!Abby | abusive relationships | threats of violence | implied/reference child endangerment | is this considered AU? | spousal abuse | men can be victims of abuse too

——————————————————————————————————

Mia

I watched him stay still when the white SUV turned onto the street, pulling into the driveway across from where we were parked.

I saw the kids first—Tanner’s little face pressed to the window, Millie’s small hands smacking her sippy cup against the glass.

And Abby behind the wheel. Sunglasses. Smile like steel.

Frank didn’t move.

Not when the engine cut off.

Not when Tanner’s small backpack tumbled out of the backseat.

Not when Abby shepherded them up the walkway, Millie toddled behind them, dragging her battered fox.

He didn’t move until the front door clicked shut behind them. 

Only then did he step out of the car. 

No hesitation.

No backward glance.

He crossed the lawn, climbed the steps, and slipped inside the house that had broken him once already.

I waited.

I kept my hands on the wheel and my eyes on the rearview.

Thirty seconds.

Forty.

No screaming. 

No sound at all.

Only when Frank disappeared inside—only when the door shut behind him—did I finally breathe out and pulled away from the curb.

The street blurred around me as I pulled away.

It was done. 

He was inside. 

He was back.

Exactly what the plan demanded.

Exactly what my gut hated.

I reached for my phone at a stoplight. Tapped open a locked, encrypted folder with a single contact stored under a name no one at PTMC would recognize.

The man I never wanted to owe again.

The number I never wanted to use.

I’d pulled it anyway.

I dragged parts of my old life back into existence, pressed it like a loaded gun into Frank’s pocket, and hoped he never had to fire it.

I’d pay for it later.

I already knew how it would start.

Less sleep, longer hours and more nights pretending I wasn’t balancing two lives. 

It was the cost.

I’d made my decision the second Frank told me he was ready.

And if the price was a little more blood on my hands—so be it.

I drove away from the house at exactly 16:26.

Frank was back where he needed to be.

The next move wasn’t mine anymore.

~~~~~~~

Frank

I saw them go in first.

That should have made it easier somehow.

Knowing the house wasn’t empty.

Knowing I wouldn’t walk into silence.

It didn’t.

If anything, it made it worse.

I saw Tanner skipping up the walkway, his backpack swinging.

Millie toddling behind, dragging her stuffed fox.

Abby turning, smiling over her shoulder like they were the perfect family walking into the perfect home.

The door closed behind them.

I stood at the curb for a long moment, the key in my pocket feeling like it weighed a hundred pounds.

Then I made myself walk forward.

Up the steps.

Across the porch.

Through the door.

The house smelled the same—like fabric softener and old wood and something sharp and chemical underneath.

The cartoon was playing low in the living room.

The kids’ backpacks were tossed carelessly by the stairs.

Millie’s sippy cup was already on the coffee table.

Normal.

Too normal.

I heard Abby in the kitchen, humming to herself.

Dishes clanking.

The casual sound of a woman who knew she had won.

Tanner spotted me first.

“Daddy!” he shrieked, abandoning the blocks on the carpet.

Before I could even drop my bag, he barreled into me.

I caught him automatically, arms locking around his small body.

Millie came next, wobbly and smiling, her fox trailing behind her.

They smelled like sunshine and apples and innocence.

Untouched.

Still okay.

Still okay.

I barely heard Abby step out of the kitchen behind me.

“Well,” she said, too brightly. “Look who finally decided to come home.”

I didn’t look up.

Couldn’t.

Not yet.

I just held onto the kids a little tighter.

“Look, daddy, look!” Tanner held up a crayon drawing, edges crumpled, colors wild and bright. “I made this at school! It’s you and me and Millie and mommy!”

I smiled as best I could.

“That’s amazing, buddy. You did a great job.” 

Millie babbled nonsense words against my shoulder.

Abby crossed her arms over her chest, leaning against the doorframe like a queen surveying her broken court.

“How sweet.” she sneered, voice still carrying that saccharine tone. “Too bad it doesn’t erase the last five days.”

My stomach twisted.

Tanner tugged at my sleeve. “Daddy, are you staying now? You’re not gonna leave again, right?”

I look into his wide, hopeful eyes. 

And lied.

“Yeah, buddy. I’m here.”

For now.

Until I could tear us all out of this mess.

Abby’s smile thinned.

“Well,” she started, “since you’re so eager to be back, why don’t you help Tanner with his homework?”

It wasn’t a request.

It was a test. 

A reminder.

I control when you breathe.

I swallowed the instinct to flinch.

“Sure,” I agreed quietly.

Tanner whooped with excitement, grabbing my hand and pulling toward the dining table.

As I let him drag me away, I felt Abby’s eyes boring into my back.

Waiting.

Watching.

Planning the next blow.

Because in this house, the smiles were the first warning shot.

And I was back behind enemy lines.

~~~~~~~

Mia

April 16, 17:10

I stayed two streets over, car idling, until I got the first check-in from Morales.

No safe word. No distress code.

Frank was inside.

Alive.

But survival wasn’t stability.

It was just inertia.

At 17:32, I answered a call from Ellis asking if I could cover for her on the 18th.

I said yes without hesitation.

Long hours meant less time to sit with guilt gnawing at me.

~~~~~~~

Frank

April 17, 07:76

Breakfast was a quiet battlefield.

Tanner kicked his legs against the chair, eating cereal too fast.

Millie dropped her spoon twice, whimpering when the milk splashed.

Abby made eggs.

Set a plate in front of me without looking.

The eggs were burned.

The fork was bent.

When I didn’t thank her, she smiled like she was filing the moment away for later punishment.

~~~~~~~

Mia

April 17, 19:20

My shift started rough—three codes back-to-back, one MVA, one overdose.

By noon, I barely had time to breathe. 

I kept my phone tucked in the inside pocket of my jacket, feeling it vibrate now and then.

Quick texts from Morales.

“Still no distress call. Holding.” 

Each one should have been reassuring.

Instead, they hallowed me out a little more each time.

~~~~~~~

Frank

April 18, 14:07

Millie tripped in the hallway, skinning her knee.

She cried.

Tanner panicked.

I rushed forward instinctively—but Abby beat me there.

She scooped Millie up fast and hard, smiling too wide as she hissed under her breath, “Back off. You’re upsetting them.”

Her nails dug into Millie’s thigh.

Millie whimpered and pressed closer to her.

I stepped back like I’d been hit.

~~~~~~~

Mia

April 18m 23:43

I sat in the on-call room at PTMC, scrolling through updates from Cynthia and Reeva.

Reeva was building a full timeline now.

The wheels were turning.

I just needed Frank to survive until we could pull the trigger.

~~~~~~~

Frank

April 19, 18:12

Dinner was silent.

Abby let Tanner chatter about preschool while her eyes stayed locked on me across the table. 

Millie sat stiffly in her booster seat, eating with careful, deliberate bites.

Every time my fork scraped the plate, Abby flinched like I was attacking her.

It was a performance.

For the kids.

For herself.

Every noise I made was a weapon she turned back to me.

~~~~~~~

Mia

April 19, 19:00

I sat outside the hospital, drinking bitter coffee, texting Morales again.

Still no triggers?

Not yet. He’s holding.

Holding,

Not living.

Not breathing freely.

Just holding.

~~~~~~~

Frank

April 20, 23:09

The house was too quiet.

Tanner and Millie were already asleep.

I sat on the couch, half-watching the muted TV, pretending the room wasn’t electric with tension.

Abby moved through the kitchen behind me.

Her footsteps too soft.

Too deliberate.

She dropped onto the couch next to me without a word.

Close.

Too close.

I stiffened.

She leaned in—smiling.

Her voice was low and syrupy.

“You’re going back to work tomorrow, aren’t you?” she murmured.

I nodded once, not trusting my voice.

She trailed her fingers along my wrist, feather-light, cold.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered.

“You’ll have plenty to explain if you leave again.”

My chest tightened.

I couldn’t breathe.

Before I could respond, she pressed a kiss to my temple.

Mocking.

Possessive.

Terrifying.

Then she stood and walked away without another word.

I sat frozen.

The TV flickered.

Some laugh tracks blared mutedly.

And I realized—

The real punishment hadn’t even started yet.

~~~~~~~

April 21, 04:03

I woke up before the alarm. 

The house was too quiet.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet.

The kind that meant something was waiting for me.

The clock read 4:03 AM.

I lay there staring at the ceiling, listening to the house breathe around me.

Tanner snored softly down the hall.

Millie shifted in her crib, her music box faintly chiming.

And Abby—

I didn’t know where Abby was.

I didn’t dare find out.

I rolled out of bed slowly, moving on automatic.

Work bag packed.

Extra scrubs folded clean inside.

Badge and stethoscope checked and rechecked.

Everything ready.

Everything controlled.

The kitchen lights were already on when I padded down the hall.

Abby stood by the counter, pouring coffee into two travel mugs.

One slid across the counter toward me without her looking up.

The smell was familiar. Bitter. Too strong.

My stomach twisted.

I reached for it anyway.

Habit.

“First day back,” she pointed out lightly, stirring sugar into her cup with a clink of the spoon.

I nodded.

Her smile was slow, like honey dripping from a knife.

“You nervous?”

I wrapped my hands around the mug to hide the shake in them.

“A little,” I confessed.

Her head tilted, studying me the way someone studies a wound.

“Well,” she taunt, voice still very much saccharin, “you have a lot to prove, don’t you?”

The words landed soft.

Almost kind.

But the meaning sliced deep.

I swallowed against the tightness in my throat.

“Right.” I stuttered, barely breathing.

She reached out then, smoothing a hand down my arm—almost affectionate.

Almost.

“I packed you lunch,” her voice light, “though you might need something comforting.”

I blinked.

Lunch?

Abby hadn’t packed my lunch since intern year.

The pit in my stomach grew teeth.

I didn’t argue.

Didn’t question.

Didn’t reach for the brown paper bag on the counter.

Just nodded “Thanks.”

Her smile sharpened.

“No problem, honey. We take care of our own, don’t we?”

The sentence was too casual to be casual.

My phone buzzed against my hip—a text reminder from PTMC, automated, reminding me of my shift start time.

Abby’s eyes flickered to the sound.

“Don’t be late,” she said, voice low and lethal.

“You wouldn’t want to give them another reason to doubt you.”

I grabbed my bag, keeping my breathing steady.

Every movement had to be perfect.

Every word measured.

I didn’t check the lunch.

Didn’t drink the coffee.

Didn’t give her an opening to corner me further.

Tanner’s art was taped to the fridge—stick figures of us all smiling.

Millie’s stuffed fox lay forgotten under the kitchen table.

I stepped back from all of it.

I gave Abby a neutral smile. “See you later.”

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Have a good day, sweetheart.”

I walked out the door.

Every step away from that house felt like wading through molasses.

Every second is like something clawing at the back of my throat.

I didn’t let my hands shake until the door was locked behind me.

I didn’t breathe until I was in my car.

I sat there for a moment, forehead against the steering wheel, letting the cold air from the vent rush over my face.

You’re out. You’re out. You’re out.

At least for now.

At least for the day.

I turned the ignition and drove to the place I wasn’t even sure was safe anymore

~~~~~~~

April 21, 06:48

The parking garage smelled like oil and wet concrete.

I pulled into the third level out of habit.

Same spot.

Same view of the cracked concrete pillar.

Same slow drag of air in my lungs.

It should’ve been comforting. It wasn’t.

I sat behind the wheel for a few minutes, counting my breathing against the tick of the cooling engine.

When I finally forced myself out of the car, the walk to the staff entrance felt heavier than it should have.

Badge tap. 

Door buzz.

The hallway into the pitt was dimmer this early, just the faint buzz of tired conversations and printers spitting out orders.

The normal chaos hadn’t hit yet.

But the weight already had.

I kept my head down as I moved towards the central station, feeling the too-quick glances, the too-loud silences behind me.

Chris was at the board, flipping through the shift sheets.

He looked up when he saw me, and his whole face softened.

“Langdon,” he said, stepping away from the desk. “Good to have you back.”

He clapped my shoulder—brief, steady, and careful.

No pity.

No hesitation.

“We’re keeping you on light duty for the first week,” Chris reminded me, voice easy, like it was no big deal. “No trauma codes, no running new crash alerts. Just pick up what’s posted on the board. Anything triaged and waiting to be seen is yours if you feel up for it.”

“Got it.” I accepted, voice rough but steady.

He gave a short nod—professional, respectful—and turned back to the board.

I shifted towards the monitors and didn’t make it two steps before a voice called out.

“Dr. Langdon!” 

I turned.

Mel stood nearby, almost bouncing in place, her tablet hugged tightly to her chest.

She was practically vibrating with restrained energy. Not forced, not theatrical. Just real, leaking out through every sharp-edged movement. “You’re back,” she said, her mouth twitching like she was trying very hard to say it correctly.

“In the flesh,” I uttered, letting a small, real smile break through.

Mel took a quick step forward, recalculating halfway, then blurted out, “I saved the updated allergen list for you.”

The words tumbled out, sharp and sincere.

Something loosened in my chest.

We’d known each other for a shift before the overdose, but the bond between us felt older.

“Thanks Mel.”

“I kept your spot in the breakroom too,” she added seriously. “The chair by the window. No one else sits there. I made sure.”

I huffed a small breath. Almost a laugh.

“Good to know. I’ll defend it with honor.”

She nodded, and as if that completed a mental checklist, drifted back into the flow of the pitt without needing more.

No pity.

Just fact.

Just loyalty.

Collins caught me next, striding past with coffee in hand 

“Good to see you, Langdon,” she greeted, flashing a smile. “The pitt’s been too boring without you.”

“Not sure boring’s bad.” I muttered

She laughed, easy and bright. “Only if you’re boring yourself.”

She disappeared in room 8 without waiting for a reply.

The warmth from their greetings stayed longer than I expected.

Small mercies.

Small anchors.

Not everyone had turned away.

Looking up at the board felt almost normal.

Asthma exacerbation. Wrist fracture. Migraine evaluation.

Easy. simple. Safe.

“I can do this. Just focus on the work,” I said to myself, didn’t know if I was convincing myself or the universe.

~~~~~~~

April 21, 13:29

I was charting notes when the air behind me changed.

Heavier. 

Slower.

I didn’t have to turn.

I already knew.

Robby.

Standing a few feet away, coffee in hand, the other stuffed awkwardly into the pocket of his hoodie like he didn’t know what to do with himself anymore.

“Frank, can we talk?”

I looked at him. Really looked.

He looked worn down.

Tired in a way that no shift could explain. Like guilt had been eating at him the way it had been eating at me.

I didn’t move for a long second.

Didn’t offer anything. 

Didn’t soften.

Then, finally, I nodded once.

“Five minutes,” I offered, voice sounding cold even to me.

He nodded like a drowning man grabbing the edge of a raft.

He gestured toward the locker room—a pocket of semi-privacy.

I followed, because some ghosts don’t get exorcised by waiting.

The locker room smelled faintly of antiseptic and stale coffee.

I leaned against my locker, back against it, arms crossed loosely over my chest.

Robby stood awkwardly in front of me, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

He opened his mouth then closed it again. Looked anywhere but at me.

Finally he spoke.

“I’m sorry,” he started, voice stiff around the edges. “I–I should’ve handled things differently.”

I didn’t say anything. Let the silence sit between us like broken glass. 

Robby pressed on, almost defensive.

“But you should have said something,” he added, the words a little too sharp “You should’ve told me if something was wrong.”

My jaw tightened.

There it was.

The apology that wasn’t an apology. 

The guilt he didn’t want to carry alone.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I mean–how was I supposed to know?” he asked, “You didn’t tell anyone. Not me. Not admin. You didn’t—” he cut himself off, exhaling hard.

He looked up finally, searching my face for something. 

For absolution, maybe.

Or for answers he wasn’t entitled to.

“You could’ve trusted me,” he accused me, “I could’ve helped you.”

I stayed where I was, arms folded, heartbeat dull against my ribs.

“You didn’t ask.” 

He flinched.

“You saw what you wanted to see,” I added, voice flat and tired, “You didn’t ask. You decided.”

Robby shifted again, uncomfortable.

“Ineeded to act fast,” he muttered, “It’s the ER. If I’d hesitated and you–if you’d been using, I would’ve put patients at risk.”

I nodded slowly.

I understood his logic.

Didn’t mean it hurt less. Didn’t mean it was easily forgivable.

Robby scrubbed a hand across his mouth, like he hates the taste of the conversation. 

“What happened, Frank? What the fuck is actually happening with you?” Robby didn’t ask. He demanded.

I looked at him. Looked at the man who once trusted me to lead traumas, who once handed me the worst nights without a second thought—and who threw me away in a heartbeat when it got inconvenient. 

“No,” I said, simply.

His face tightened. “Frank…”

“No,” I repeated, voice steady. “You don’t get to ask that!.” I snapped, straightening off the locker. “You don’t get to demand answers now.”

He stared at me. Realizing, maybe for the first time, that the space between us wasn’t something an apology could bridge.

I stepped past him without another word. I also stepped past Dana who watched the entire thing.

I didn’t owe him my story.

I don’t owe any of them anything at all.

I didn’t stop walking until I reached the break room. The door creaked softly as it swung shut behind me. 

I crossed the room automatically–past the stale smell of burned coffee and the half-forgotten boxes of pastries from last night’s shift–to the chair by the window.

The one Mel had saved.

The one no one else was allowed to touch.

The one that had a direct view of the bench across the street.

I dropped into it heavily, resting my elbows on my knees, my hands loose and shaking slightly in the still air.

For a moment, I just sat there…breathing.

Trying to convince my body that it was safe.

The pitt buzzed faintly on the other side of the door—codes being called, voices murmuring, beds wheeled past with soft clatters. 

I wasn’t on trauma codes.

I wasn’t being shoved out.

I was here.

Alive.

Breathing.

I closed my eyes and counted my heartbeat, slow and methodical.

And yet the weight of the day pressed down on my chest until it felt like my ribs might crack and cave. 

The stares today.

The too-careful glances.

The whispered conversations cutting off when I walked by.

It clung to me like static electricity, buzzing under my skin, refusing to dissipate.

I dragged a hand down my face, trying to ground myself. And for one stupid, reckless second, I wished Mia was here.

I pictured her leaning against the doorframe with a cup of shitty coffee, arms crossed, giving me that look that said breathe, frank, you’re fine.

I wanted her voice anchoring me.

I wanted her quiet presence smoothing out the jagged panic building in my chest.

But she wasn’t coming.

She wasn’t on her way.

She wasn’t even in the building.

Nightshift.

She always worked nights.

I was alone here.

Completely, crushingly alone.

That realization cracked something wide open.

My breath caught halfway up my throat—too shallow, too sharp.

 I folded in on myself without meaning to, forearms braced on my thighs, forehead dropping on my palms.

The room blurred around the edges.

The walls felt closer.

The ceiling felt lower.

Breathe.

Hold.

Release.

It wasn’t enough.

The memories surged anyways.

The bench.

The bag of ativan shaking in my hand.

The cold wood digging into my back as I slipped under.

I pressed my palms harder into my eyes until stars burst behind my lids.

Not here.

Not now.

Not like this.

But the panic didn’t care.

It pushed harder, wild, and scraping, until my chest heaved against it.

Until my nails dug into the fabric of my scrub pants, anchoring myself to the chair because if I let go, I wasn’t sure I’d stay upright.

The first sharp, breathless sob broke free before I could stop it.

Silent. 

Violent.

I clench my jaw to keep the next one in, tasting salt and shame and fear. 

The world tilted.

Flattened. 

squeezed.

Until finally—

Finally—

I forced a shuddering breath into my lungs.

Forced it out.

Again.

And again.

Until the room started to slow its spin. 

Until the static coursing through my limbs began to pull back.

Until I could lift my head, blinking against the weak daylight threading through the narrow window.

I sat there for a long time, breathing like I’d run a marathon.

The ER beyond the door still buzzed like nothing had changed.

And me?

I was still here.

Not okay.

Not whole.

But here.

And for today—

For this hour,

For this minute,

That would have to be enough.

~~~~~~~

Thirty more minutes.

That’s all I had to survive.

The end of my shift hung ahead of me like a finish line. Close enough to taste, too far to feel safe.

I leaned against the nurses’ station, coffee in hand and scrolling half-heartedly through the triage board, ticking off easy follow-ups in my head.

No new traumas.

No disasters. 

Just a handful of minor cases to hand off at four o’clock.

I could do this.

I could finish this shift.

I could go home and figure out how to survive whatever fresh hell waited behind my front door.

The triage radio crackled sharply to life. “Ambulance inbound. Five minutes out.” came the paramedic’s voice, slightly rushed but clear.

Peds case. Young male. 4 years old.

Collapsed during school hours.

Altered mental status.

Weakness reported during the past week—clumsiness, fatigue, episodes of dizziness.

Today: sudden collapse post-snack.

Now bradycardia.

Respiratory rate shallow.

low blood pressure.

No external trauma noted.

Vitals unstable.

Unresponsive to voice.

Oxygen applied.

IV established.

Standard report. Professional. Crisp.

But there was something in the way the paramedic hesitated. Just a heartbeat longer than he should have. 

“It’s Langdon’s son.”

[trishxtrix]

The Bench Across the Street

AO3

Part 1 | Previous | Part 11 | Next

Summary: What if Abby is hurting and forcing Frank to take benzos to “control” his ADHD?

What if few hours after the argument, Frank is brought to the ED on a brink of an overdose and some unexplainable injuries.

TW: Abuse, Overdose, Suicide Attempt

Tags: Dark!Abby | Frank whump | Frank-centric | Miscommunication | Abusive!Abby | abusive relationships | threats of violence | implied/reference child endangerment | is this considered AU? | spousal abuse | men can be victims of abuse too

——————————————————————————————————

Frank

I woke up just before six. 

Birds, somewhere outside past Mia’s shuttered windows, were chirping with a kind of shameless optimism that felt almost offensive.

The guest room was dark, except for the low amber spill of a street lamp outside the window. The sheets were soft, the pillow still held the faint scent of fresh detergent and clean space. I hadn’t slept well—but it wasn’t from discomfort. It was just the way rest sits differently on you when everything else is waiting.

I pulled on a hoodie, walked barefoot to the kitchen, and started the coffee. The apartment was still. Not quite in a cold way—just holding its breath the way early mornings do. I found eggs, bread, and the last of the roasted vegetables in her fridge. 

By the time the first pan sizzled I’d already started reviewing the documents—the affidavits Reeva had drafted, the consent forms, the timeline Cynthia outlined in quiet legal phrasing that made my life look like someone else’s police report. I didn’t linger on the pain of it. Just marked what needed edits. Signed. Initialed. Added one note in the margin of my own:

She threatened harm to the kids the same morning I overdosed.

It felt surgical. Clean. Necessary.

When the last page was signed, I set it aside and pulled out my phone. 

6:47 am.

I scheduled an appointment with my primary care for the next day. The confirmation came in seconds, surprisingly.

Then I answered the messages from yesterday.

[AM SHIFT LEAD – THE PITT]: I’m good to work my shift next week. Will be getting my clearance tomorrow.

[HR – PTMC]: I’ve scheduled my clearance with my PCP for tomorrow. Will forward it then.

[To Jack 🦿🐇]: Appreciate the support. I’ve got my clearance scheduled. Looking forward to being back.

[To Dana ☀️🎪]: Thanks for checking in. I’ll be back next week. Seeing my PCP on the 16th.

I stared at the screen for a long time when I got to Robby’s.

[To Robby 🐱🩺]: I’m not ready for that conversation. It might take a while. But I saw your message. That’s all I can give right now.

Then Abby’s messages.

[To Abby 🖤]: I’ll be home by tomorrow evening. I have my appointment that morning. Please don’t involve the kids.

I didn’t look at her older texts. I didn’t want to see them. I didn’t want to feel what they’d still do to me.

I set the phone down and sat with the silence. The kind that comes just before something starts.

Behind me, I heard Mia shift.

Not the sluggish stir of someone half-asleep—but the measured, purposeful movement of someone who was already aware before their body caught up. By the time she stepped into the kitchen, her hair was tied back, face alert, eyes already tracking the layout of the room like it might contain a threat.

Her gaze swept the stovetop, the mugs, the table—and then landed on the paperwork.

She met my eyes.

“You’ve been busy,” she said. Voice low and clear, but there was something else behind it—a thread of caution, of weight.

I nodded. “Everything’s signed.”

She walked over, flipped through the folder, her fingers pausing over a couple of the initialed margins. Her movements were practiced, calm. Like she was checking the pulse of the situation before she let it beat forward.

“I made breakfast,” I added, softer. “Hope I didn’t use your last good eggs.”

“You didn’t”

She reached the last page, let it fall back into place, then looked at me again.

“Frank. Are you sure?”

I let out a breath and met her eyes straight on. “Tell them I’m ready. Tell them I signed everything and I want this started. They’ve been waiting. No more waiting.”

Her expression didn’t shift right away, but I saw the faint change in her posture. The way her shoulders eased—not relaxed, not exactly—but settled into certainty.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll make the calls. No action until I do.”

She reached for her phone with her free hand and stepped aside, already scrolling. A beat later she tapped the screen and put the phone to her ear. 

“Reeva first,” she muttered. “Then the rest.”

I sipped my coffee as she stepped into the kitchen doorway, just far enough to speak quietly but not out of earshot if I needed her voice. The sound of it—even in low, clipped tones—helped. It made things feel real, but not impossible.

A few minutes later, she came back in. her face was unreadable, but I could tell by the way she moved that the message had been received.

“They’ll start what needs to be started. No one moves publicly until after the 16th.”

I nodded once.

Her phone buzzed again. She checked it.

“It’s Reeva,” she said. “She’s telling me to inform you that you have your first session of your psych workup after your PCP appointment. It’s not for work—it's for the case. Evidence. Emotional profiling. Pattern of harm. It’ll be part of the full legal package.”

I took a long sip of coffee.

“Okay.” I said.

Just that.

And this time, Mia didn’t ask me if I was sure again.

She just sat across from me, matching the stillness in the room, and let the moment pass with me.

~~~~~~~

I was already awake when my alarm went off.

I hadn’t really slept. Just dozed in shifts between panic and muscle memory. My mind kept running the same tape: the bench across the street, the bitter taste of pills in my mouth, the sound of the wind, and wondering—if someone would find me in time.

The morning light was gray. Cloud-thick. No sun. No birds.

I took a shower that lasted too long. Scrubbed myself hard enough to make my skin sting, like I could wash the whole past month off me. I dressed in the clean clothes Mia had bought—jeans, sweatshirt, neutral colors that made me look like someone harmless. Someone functioning.

Mia had already made coffee. She didn’t ask how I was feeling. Just handed me the mug, her expression unreadable but steady. I was grateful she didn’t say anything. If she had, I might’ve cracked before we even left the apartment.

We didn’t talk on the way to my primary care appointment. The car was silent except for the soft hum of traffic. The check-up was routine. The nurse didn’t ask about the psych hold. The doctor gave me a clinical once-over and signed the clearance without questions. 

I wasn’t surprised. That’s how it usually went.

We had an hour to spare before the evaluation.

Mia parked near the clinic where the psych workup had been scheduled. A trauma-informed specialist Reeva trusted. Neutral territory. Unaffiliated with PTMC. Clean records. No ties to Abby. No ties to Mia.

I didn’t get out of the car right away. 

Mia waited. 

“It’s just another formality,” I said finally, my own voice hollow. “Just more paperwork.”

Mia didn’t respond at first. Then “It’s not just paperwork, but it is necessary.”

“I know.”

I stepped out of the car and followed her in.

The building was quiet. Fluorescent lights. Plastic plants. The woman at the front desk didn’t smile too much. Didn’t pretend to be cheerful. She just handed me a clipboard and asked for my signature.

Then she said “Dr. Rosenthal will see you shortly,” and gestured toward a closed door with frosted glass.

Mia sat in the waiting room.

I went in alone.

The room was too bright. Not harsh, just…exposed. It smelled like lemon cleaner and dry paper. There were two chairs. A box of tissues. A carafe of water. A clock that ticked to audibly.

Dr. Rosenthal looked to be in his fifties. Calm eyes, folded hands, a suit without a tie. He offered a smile that didn’t feel like a performance.

“Frank, it’s good to meet you. I’ve read the preliminary materials Reeva and your team sent over. Today’s session will be clinical—but conversational. You won’t be diagnosed. There’s no pass or fail. But what you share may become part of the legal statement Reeva’s building.”

I nodded.

“If something feels too hard to talk about, tell me. But I do need honesty.”

“Okay,” I said, voice quiet.

He clicked on a recorder. Set a file folder aside. And began.

He started with the basics. 

Name. DOB. Occupation. Marital status. Number of children.

Then it started shifting.

“Can you describe the nature of your relationship with your wife?”

My hand clenched around the arms of the chair. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

“I think she loved me. Or used to. Or needed me. It all blurred.”

“How long have you suspected the relationship was abusive?”

Silence. I stared at the tissue box on the table. 

“She told me once that if I ever left her, she’d make our kids end up in the ER. She knew where to press. Where to bruise without breaking bones. Where to wait until I’d forget what I looked like without her voice in my head.”

My voice cracked. I kept talking anyway.

“There were pills. She said they’d help me sleep. Then they were to keep me calm. Then to make me forget. She’d mix them into tea. Into meals. Told me I was unstable, that I scared the kids. I believed her for a while.”

“Do you still believe her now?”

“No,” I whispered, “but I still hear her in my head.”

“Let’s walk through the day of your suicide attempt.”

I flinched. The word hit harder than it should have. Not because I didn’t know what it was, but because hearing someone else say it made it too real again.

He didn’t apologize. Didn’t soften the phrasing. Just waited, as if acknowledging that it was already real, already there, and that naming it didn’t make it worse.

My fingers curled against the fabric of my pants. I stared at the seam near my knee and forced myself to speak. 

“It started early,” I started. My voice sounded thin, like it didn’t belong to me. “Abby was already in the kitchen when I came down. She made coffee—mine already poured. She always poured mine first. I didn’t used to think about that. But that morning…”

I swallowed hard.

“She asked if I’d taken my pills. I told her I was cutting back. That they made me feel wrong. That I didn’t feel like myself. And that’s when she said it.”

“What did she say?”

“If I don’t take the pills,” I whispered, “She’ll make sure the kids end up in the ER.”

Rosenthal didn’t interrupt. He just let the silence follow. 

My voice shook. “And the worst part? I believe her. She said it like it was just another fact. Like making them bleed was the same as packing their lunches.”

“How long had she been threatening the kids?”

“She never said it directly before. But she’d made comments. That they were ‘too soft’ around me. That I was turning them into cowards. Once, she told me that if I ever made her look bad, she'd remind me whose body carried them into this world.”

Rosenthal wrote that down. Slowly. Intentionally.

“What did you do after that conversation?”

“I went to work,” I said. “I didn’t know what else to do. I felt like I was vibrating out of my skin.”

I swallowed. “I kept checking my locker. I brought the pills with me. I’d been keeping them there, meaning to throw them out. Flush them. But I kept on getting pulled to cases, or convincing myself I might need them just in case things got worse.”

He nodded. “You were keeping the weapon, just in case.”

“Yeah.” 

I closed my eyes for a second.

“What happened next?”

“An intern saw me. I think she noticed how often I kept going back to my locker. Maybe how tense I was. I saw her talking to Robby, Dr. Robinovitch, the attending physician on shift .”

My chest tightened like a fist around my lungs.

“Robby pulled me off the floor. Said we needed to talk. I thought—god—I thought maybe he was going to ask if I was okay. I thought maybe he finally noticed I wasn’t okay.”

“What did he say?”

“He started accusing me of stealing drugs and using them in the ER. Had me open my locker. Found the drugs…” I trailed off. I pressed my nails into my palms, grounding myself.

“And did he ask you to explain?”

I shook my head. Tears burned without permission.

“No. He told me to go home. I tried to explain. I tried to explain that it wasn’t mine but I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t make myself tell Robby that the pills were Abby’s and I was planning on flushing them.”

I paused and dug my nails harder into my skin.

“So I…I told him about my PCA because of my back injury, but he wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t listen.”

My voice broke.

“He wouldn’t listen and he just looked at me like I was disgusting. Like I’d disappointed him. Like I wasn’t worth the oxygen it would take to ask the next question”

Tears were falling now, quietly.

“He told me I was finished and that I should just go home. Like I was already done.”

I stared at the floor because it was easier than looking at the reality across from me.

“I never got to tell him the truth. I never got to tell him that they weren’t mine. That I was using against my will. That I was trying to throw them away.”

Rosenthal waited a moment, then asked gently,  “And then?”

“I couldn’t—didn’t want to go home yet. I sat on the bench across the street for an hour. Just sitting. Trying to figure out how the hell am I gonna fix it.”

My nails hurt from how hard I was pressing.

“Then we got the call. PittFest. The shooting.”

Rosanthal’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

“The hospital was calling everyone in, code triage was in place. All hands on deck.”

I breathed out a shaky laugh.

“I was technically still on shift. I hadn’t clocked out when Robby shoved me out. So I ran back in. Grabbed gloves. Trauma gowns.”

The noise came back first—the shrieks of sirens, the metallic slam of stretchers, the relentless voices on the radio.

 “We didn’t stop moving for hours.”

“And Robby?”

“We were working side by side. I could feel him watching me every time I took over a case. Like he was waiting for me to fall apart.”

“Did you speak to him again?”

“Yeah.” I laughed, bitter. “After things settled. He caught me in the ambulance bay. I tried to be calm about it. I tried to understand where Robby was coming from. He doesn’t know what’s been happening to me. No one did, except Mia. But he wouldn’t listen.”

I could still hear it—his voice, tight and disappointed.

“He told me to get help. Offered rehab.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told him not to be a hypocrite,” My chest ached, “I told him that if I have to get help, then he did too. That I wasn’t the only one that saw him breaking down in our makeshift morgue in the peds room.”

I looked down at my shaking hands.

“And then?”

“I walked away.”

“And where did you go?”

My throat closed.

“The bench.”

I could barely say it. The word cracked in my mouth like bone splintering.

“Across the street. Just far enough to feel invisible. Just close enough that maybe someone would find me.”

He didn’t write anything.

“What did you take?”

“All the Ativan I had.”

“Did you want to die?”

I stared at my hands, blurred by the tears I couldn’t stop.

“I wanted to stop hurting. I wanted her to stop winning. I wanted silence.”

He let the silence stretch—long enough for me to feel it, but not long enough to drown.

“How did you feel when you woke up?”

I blinked and swallowed hard.

“Angry. Ashamed. And then scared—because I didn’t know how much I’d said while they were saving me. I didn’t know what damage I’d done by surviving.”

“Did it feel like failure?”

“No,” I whispered. “It felt like exposure. Like I’d been cracked open and everyone could see exactly how weak I was.”

“And now?” Rosanthal’s voice was low, steady.

“Now?”

I closed my eyes.

“I don’t know. I feel broken, but I’m still standing.”

A pause.

“I am still standing, right?”

Rosenthal nodded. “You are,” he said. Quiet. Firm. “And what you’ve survived doesn’t make you weak. It makes you real.”

He clicked the recorder off.

“I’ll draft my report,” he said, “it will reflect everything you shared today—and it will be clear. No ambiguity. No room for anyone to twist it.”

I stood up slowly. My legs barely held me. I didn’t realize I was still crying until I stepped into the lobby and saw Mia.

She stood the moment she saw me. Eyes flicking over me like she was scanning for injury.

She didn’t ask. Didn’t force anything.

She just opened her arms.

And this time, I didn’t hesitate.

I stepped into her.

Let her arms fold around my shoulders, steady and real and solid.

Not because I was falling apart.

But because for once—I knew I didn’t have to hold all of it alone.

~~~~~~~

The ride to the house from the clinic was supposed to be short. Maybe forty-five minutes.

But we didn’t leave right away. We stayed in the parking lot, letting the silence wrap around the both of us.

Mia sat behind the wheel, hands loose on the steering wheel, engine humming low beneath us. The windows fogged slightly from our breath.

The psych eval sat like a second skin on me—heavy, raw, unfinished.

I stared at my hands.

Mia finally broke the silence, her voice low and steady.

“You don’t have to go through the door if you’re not ready.”

I closed my eyes. The weight of the key in my pocket burned like lead.

“If I don’t go back, she wins.”

“No,” Mia said, and there was steel underneath the calm. “She doesn’t win either way. This isn’t a game.”

I turned my head, looking at her. The sharpness in her jawline. The patience carved deep into her shoulder. 

“She’s still in there, you know?” I asked, barely a whisper. “The Abby that could smile at the nurses and bake cupcakes for PTA and tell me I was the best thing that ever happened to her. I still see her sometimes.” 

Mia’s hands tightened once around the wheel, then relaxed.

“That’s what abusers do. They build a version of themselves that’s easier to grieve than the truth is to accept.”

I laughed bitterly. “So what does that make me? A ghost haunting my own life?”

She turned in her seat so she was facing me fully.

“No,” she said. “You’re someone who survived a war nobody else could see.”

Her voice didn’t break. Mine almost did.

“You think surviving matters?” I asked, tired and cracked open.

“I know it does.”

She paused. Looked at me like she wasn’t just seeing what was left—but what could still grow back. 

“Frank…you’re not going back there to prove you’re strong. You’re not going back to prove anything to her. You are going back so that when you leave—really leave—you’ll have every piece of your life in your hands. Not hers.”

The words sat heavy between us.

Right and wrong didn’t feel clean anymore.

They felt like bricks being laid under my feet, one at a time.

“I’m scared,” I said 

Mia nodded “You should be. Fear doesn’t mean you're weak. It means you realize how much you’re carrying.”

I wiped my hands against my jeans.

“I don’t know if I can walk in there without losing pieces of myself all over again.”

Mia reached across the console and set her hands near mine. Not grabbing. Not demanding. Just there.

“You don’t have to be whole today,” she said. “You just have to walk through the door.”

The silence stretched again, but it didn’t feel empty.

It felt like something breathing in between us.

I closed my fingers over hers, grounding myself with the simplest truth in the car: Mia wasn’t asking me to be anyone other than the man who had survived.

~~~~~~~

The car idled at the curb. I stared out the window towards the house—the place that had been mine once. 

It looked the same.

Same Red door. Same pale brick. The hanging plant Abby never watered.

I could already feel the weight of the walls pressing against my ribs, even from here. Mia stayed silent until my hands started to clench and unclench against my thighs. Then she pulled her phone out, tapped a number, and lifted it to her hear.

“Morales,” she said without greeting.

There was a pause, and then the low, professional cadence of Captain Morales filled the car through the speaker.

“You in position?” Morales asked.

“We’re out front,” Mia confirmed. “Everything ready?”

“Affirmative. External surveillance is already running. Cameras at the intersection caught the vehicle this morning, systems confirmed active. Dispatch has your protocol flagged under Welfare Priority. If he text the safe word, they’re at the door in under four minutes.”

“Four’s too long,” Mia snapped, voice sharper than I’d heard all morning.

Morales was quiet for a breath. “We’ve got an officer ghost-walking the block. Plainclothes. Closer if needed.”

Mia’s eyes flicked to me, then back to the road.

“And Abby?” she asked.

“Out of the house, routine pickup. ETA…six, maybe seven minutes.”

Mia ended the call without saying goodbye.

She set the phone in the cupholder, turned to me fully.

“You’re not going to be alone for a second,” She assured me. “You even think something’s wrong, you text me. You don’t have to explain. You don’t have to wait.”

I nodded, swallowed hard.

“And Frank,” she added, softer, “if it gets bad—if it starts to feel like you’re slipping—don’t try to hold out for proof. Your life isn’t leverage.”

I close my eyes.

Breathed.

Nodded again.

We stayed in the car a few minutes longer.

The minutes felt both endless and not enough.

Then Mia reached across the console, not to touch me this time, but to set a folded scrap of paper on my knee.

A name and number.

“If you need extraction,” she said simply, “you call this. Don’t think about it. Dont argue. Just tell them my name and where you are.”

I didn’t ask how she got the contact. 

Some part of me didn’t want to know.

Another car turned onto the street.

A white SUV.

Abby.

I saw Tanner in the back seat, pressed against the window. Millie’s car seat was nestled behind the driver’s side, a splash of pink against the beige interior.

My breath caught.

Not from fear. 

From the kind of grief that felt too big to hold inside my chest.

I watch them pull into the driveway. Watched Abby step out, adjusting her sunglasses, her keys jangling against her phone. 

She didn’t see us.

Not yet.

Mia’s hand touched the back of my shoulder—brief, firm, anchoring.

“You ready?”

“No,” I muttered. “But I’m here.”

She nodded once.

No false comfort.

No pretending it would be okay.

Just the truth.

She pushed the gearshift into drive, pulled slowly alongside the curb. Gave me a clean exit, away from the sightline of the windows.

“Text me,” she said, one last time. “For anything.”

I reached for the door handle.

“Thank you.”

Mia’s gaze caught mine, steady and relentless.

“You survive this,” she demanded, “that’s how you thank me.”

I step out of the car. 

The door closed behind me with a soft, final click.

I didn’t look back.

I couldn’t.

[trishxtrix]

Hear me out, just listen!!

A Jack Abbot x Frank Langdon x Robby edit to Colors

[Jack on the roof in the morning]

You're dripping like a saturated sunrise

You're spilling like an overflowing sink

[Jack prosthetic leg scene]

You're ripped at every edge but you're a masterpiece

[Jack MCI scenses]

And now you're tearing through the pages and the ink

[Frank]

Everything is blue

[Locker room scene]

His pills, his hands, his jeans

And now I'm covered in the colors

[Argument with robby at the ambulance bay]

Pulled apart at the seams

[Him standing alone in the ambulance bay]

And it's blue

And it's blue

[Robby]

Everything is gray

His hair, his smoke, his dreams

[Robby bathroom breakdown & peds room breakdown]

And now he's so devoid of color

He don't know what it means

[Robby on the roof]

And he's blue

And he’s blue

[trishxtrix]

The Bench Across the Street

AO3

Part 1 | Previous | Part 10 | Next |

Summary: What if Abby is hurting and forcing Frank to take benzos to “control” his ADHD?

What if few hours after the argument, Frank is brought to the ED on a brink of an overdose and some unexplainable injuries.

TW: Abuse, Overdose, Suicide Attempt

Tags: Dark!Abby | Frank whump | Frank-centric | Miscommunication | Abusive!Abby | abusive relationships | threats of violence | implied/reference child endangerment | is this considered AU? | spousal abuse | men can be victims of abuse too

——————————————————————————————————

Mia

The kitchen didn’t have a door—just a frame that gave the illusion of separation. But in moments like this, even illusions were precious.

I stepped past the threshold and lowered the lights just enough to take the edge of the overhead glare. Cynthia stood by the sink, arms crossed, not pretending to relax. Reeva took a seat at the kitchen table and immediately began sorting her notes into small, precise stacks. Morales, still in her coat, stood near the wall, close enough to listen, far enough not to crowd the room.

Frank hadn’t followed.

Good. He needed space and deserved privacy.

“We’re tight on time,” Cynthia said softly, casting a glance toward the living room, her voice practiced-low. “He’s barely discharged, and it’s already feeling like we’re late.”

“We’re not,” I replied. “But we will be if we don’t keep this pace.”

Reeva didn’t look up. “We’ve bought ourselves maybe forty-eight hours before Abby makes a move—passive or otherwise. She knows Frank should be home. Every day he stays gone, is leverage slipping out of her hands, and she’ll notice.”

“She’s calculated,” Morales said, adjusting the position of her watch as if time was something she could reset. “She might not come out swinging. She might wait. Smile. Document his silence. Use it.”

“She’s done that before,” I informed them, “he told me she rewrote their last six months in emails. Told the school he was unstable. Started staging the narrative before she ever pushed him hard enough to leave.”

“Then we need to act before her version becomes the default,” Reeva said. “We file what we can, prepare for what we can’t.”

Cynthia unfolded her arms. “We still have no physical documentation of the abuse. No medical records. No police reports. That puts us at a disadvantage if Abby plays clean in the next few days.”

I didn’t mean to speak as angrily as I did. “I have logs. I took notes. Pictures. Timestamps. I kept every time he came to me with bruises or worse.”

Reeva glanced up, telling me again what she told Frank. “You’re not a neutral party. What you have matters, but it won’t be admissible without corroboration.”

I look down, jaw tight. “I know.”

“And even if it’s not in court,” Cynthia added, gentler, “we need more than one person saying, ‘I saw what she did.’ We need her to show it.”

“That’s why we’re considering the return,” Reeva said. “If Frank goes back—briefly, cautiously—and Abby slips even once, we’ll have enough to go beyond statements and assumptions. Surveillance. Monitored comms. Trigger texts. Every second inside that house becomes context.”

Morales shifted her stance. “But if he does it, it has to be airtight. Exit strategy, backup alert, live phone pings. I’ll have a plainclothes officer parked on a nearby block if we greenlight it.”

I nodded once. “I can call in favors.”

That made the room still.

Cynthia looked at me, cautious. “What kind of favors?”

“The kind that can…fill in blanks. Quietly.” My voice didn’t shift tone, but everyone in the room understood the weight behind it. “If we need supporting files—evidence that matches what we already know—I can make that happen. With quality that passes inspection. Chain of custody. Metadata. The kind of work that makes people question their own eyes before they question the file.”

Everyone went still.

Cynthia looked at me carefully. “Would it cost you?”

I didn’t answer right away. 

“Yes,” I finally said. “But if it gets Frank out of this for good…I’ll pay it.”

No one spoke for a beat.

Reeva, finally, placed her pen down and looked at me directly.

“We’re not there yet,” she said. “Don’t cash that favor unless we’re out of road. Because once you do, that part of your life gets reopened—and I doubt it’ll close cleanly.”

“I know what I’m offering,” I said, sharper than intended.

Morales didn’t even blink. “Just make sure Frank never knows it was on the table.”

“He won’t.” 

No one spoke for a beat.

“I hate this part,” Cynthia murmured. “Knowing we have to let him hurt just a little longer just to have a shot at stopping it for good.”

“We’re not letting it happen,” Morales said, “we’re watching. We’re planning. That’s the difference.”

We all knew it didn’t feel like one.

“We’ll regroup before the end of the week,” Reeva said. “If Frank decides to go back, we pull every safety measure. Nothing rushed. Nothing sloppy.”

She stacked her notes, calm and contained, and left without another word. Cynthia gave me a small look on her way out—one of those glances that said more than comfort ever could.

That left Morales and me.

She lingered just a little longer, gaze on the wall like she was calculating something. 

“You didn’t say much,” I pointed out, quietly.

“Didn't need to,” she replied. “You all said what I was thinking.”

She glanced back toward the living room.

“That call you took earlier,” she started, “you want me keeping an eye on it? Quiet?”

“If I need something buried,” I said, “I’ll let you know.”

Morales gave a short nod. “You know where to find me.”

She left without another word. 

The apartment finally fell into a kind of stillness that didn’t feel like it was holding its breath anymore—just settling.

I turned the dimmer lower, leaving only the soft glow from the living room lamp. Frank was still on the couch, shoulders hunched slightly, like the weight hadn’t fully lifted. 

The manila folder sat in front of him. Still untouched.

I stepped in quietly. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. “They’re gone?”

“Yeah.”

He nodded, like that answer carried more than it should “You came back.”

“I always do.”

A pause. The weight of the statement is not lost on the both of them. 

“I hate that telling the truth doesn’t fix anything,” he murmured, “it just…starts a clock.”

“That’s how it works,” I said evenly. “Especially when the truth threatens someone else’s control.”

He shook his head slowly. “So what know?”

“Now we wait for you to decide.”

“But we’re on a clock, aren’t we?”

I didn’t hesitated. “Yes. But you’re not behind. You were discharged yesterday. You’re still in the ‘grace period’. The system hasn’t questioned your absence yet. But it will.”

He swallowed har. “How long until she notices?”

“She already has,” I said. “She’s waiting to see if you crawl back on your own.”

He exhaled through his nose, slow. “If I go back in—even for one night—what if she doesn’t slip? What if she plays perfect?”

“Then we pivot,” I answered. “We play long. But if she doesn’t…if she gets even a little comfortable—”

“Then you’ll catch it,” he finished. “Before it breaks me again.”

I nodded once.

He looked at me then, eyes raw.

“Will you be there?”

“I’ll be on the same block if I have to be.”

That answer settled something in him.

“Do you want to be alone tonight?” I asked, quietly.

He shook his head “No.”

I didn’t move closer. Just sat near enough for him to feel it.

We stayed like that for a long time. Nothing said. Nothing rushed.

Because survival doesn’t always sound like a plan.

Sometimes it sounds like breath shared in a quiet room, and someone choosing to stay when they don’t have to.

[trishxtrix]

The Bench Across the Street

AO3

Part 1 | Previous | Part 9 | Next

Summary: What if Abby is hurting and forcing Frank to take benzos to “control” his ADHD?

What if few hours after the argument, Frank is brought to the ED on a brink of an overdose and some unexplainable injuries.

TW: Abuse, Overdose, Suicide Attempt

Tags: Dark!Abby | Frank whump | Frank-centric | Miscommunication | Abusive!Abby | abusive relationships | threats of violence | implied/reference child endangerment | is this considered AU? | spousal abuse | men can be victims of abuse too

——————————————————————————————————

Frank

I couldn’t hear them anymore. Not really. Just voices blurring in and out—like I was underwater and everyone else was standing above the surface, talking through glass.

My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. My breath felt like it was caught halfway up my throat. No matter how deep I tried to inhale, it wouldn’t stick. Wouldn’t settle. I couldn’t look at Cynthia or Reeva or Morales without my vision pinholing, like I was falling into some small, cold tunnel I couldn’t get out of.

And Mia wasn’t there. That was the worst part. I didn’t realize how much space she took up—not just in the room, but in the air. In my spine. Like she carried a part of my balance with her, and when she left, the axis tilted.

She hadn’t said how long she’d be. 

And I didn’t ask. 

I couldn’t.

Everytime someone spoke my name, I flinched. Couldn’t answer. Couldn’t form words, My body was still in the room, but I wasn’t

I was on that bench again.

Across the street. Watching the hospital doors. Waiting for the world to forget me. And I couldn’t tell them that. Couldn’t explain how loud it had gotten in my head again. Couldn’t say that the only thing I’d wanted—more than oxygen, more than escape—was her voice. That steady, familiar cadence. Something to cut through the noise.

Then—

The lock turned.

The front door opened.

I didn’t look up.

I didn’t have to.

Her footsteps were brisk, sharp, not rushed. Measured. Purposeful.

Mia.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just walked across the room and then she was kneeling beside me. “Frank,” she said softly.

I blinked.

“I’m here,” she added, steady and certain. “I’m back.” She didn’t reach to pull me out of it. She didn’t try to fix it with her hands. She just offered her presence like a rope laid on the floor between us—no pressure, just choice.

Her hand was open. There if I needed it.

And I did.

I slid mine into hers—fingers cool, her grip anchoring, not too tight. Just enough. 

It felt like something clicked back into place. Not everything. Not healing. But human again. “I couldn’t breathe,” I said, the words brittle. “I couldn’t think.”

“You don’t have to explain it,” she said. Her hands stayed wrapped around mine, still and solid, like it had all the time in the world. Behind her, the room shifted. Reeva eased back in her chair. Morales stepped further away. Cynthia looked down, like she was letting the moment stretch as long as it needed to. 

Mia turned to me again. Her voice was quiet, just for me.

“Do you want to stop here for today?”

I shook my head slowly “No.”

Her eyes searched mine. “Are you sure?”

“I need to keep going,” I said. “Even if it hurts.”

She nodded “All right,” she said gently. “Then we keep going.”

~~~~~~~

The worst part wasn’t saying it.

It was the silence after.

The way no one moved right away. How everyone waited, respectfully, as if the weight of what I’d said still hadn’t settled into the floor. 

Reeva closed her file with a soft, purposeful click. Cynthia’s tablet dimmed. Morales gave me a nod—silent, but solid. 

I sat back on the couch, still holding Mia’s hand. She hadn’t moved either. 

It was like the air shifted. No longer fragile—just heavy with the next steps.

Cynthia broke the quiet. 

“We have enough for our internal documentation,” she started gently, “but we’re going to need to finish the full affidavit, your medical consent forms, the DV disclosure packet, and the third-party impact statement, and an optional DV escalation log.”

I nodded like I understood all of that.

I didn’t.

Reeva set a manila folder on the coffee table “I’ve drafted preliminary language based on what Mia discussed with me. You can edit as needed. Nothing gets submitted until you say so.”

I stared at the folder. 

“Do I need to sign anything now?”

“Only what you’re ready for,” she said, “we’re still in pre-escalation.”

Pre-escalation. 

As if this wasn’t the most escalated version of my life I’d ever lived.

“What happens once it’s filed?”

“Public record begins,” Morales answered, pulling out a small black notebook from her inner coat pocket. “Once we file anything official, it goes on record. Custody, injunctions, DV reports. A paper trail.”

“And Abby?” I asked

“She’ll know,” Cynthua said. “Eventually. That’s not the issue. The issue is whether the case can hold under the scrutiny if she pushes back hard.”

“She will,” I said. “She already has the stage set.”

That’s when Reeva leaned forward, her voice calm but decisive,

“Frank, I need to be honest with you. There is a structural gap in the evidence.”

“What kind of gap?”

Reeva glanced at Cynthia, who answered. “You’ve never sought formal medical care after the incidents of physical abuse. No hospital records. No documentation. No third-party witness. Nothing admissible that proves she’s harmed you outside of your word.”

I froze. 

“But Mia…she’s seen—”

Mia spoke before I could finish “I have logs. I documented bruising. Photos. Timestamp. When he came to my apartment after the worst of it. I kept notes.”

“That helps,” Reeva said, measured, “but you’re his friend. His emergency contact. You’re not neutral in the eyes of the court.”

“And even if I was,” Mia added softly, “what I have won’t be enough unless Abby slips while people are watching.”

“She won’t,” I whispered, “she’s too careful.”

“That’s why we need proximity,” Cynthia said. “Supervised. Protected, but close enough that if she starts again, it’ll be caught. Real-time evidence. Something we can act on faster.”

Morales nodded. “With consent, I can authorize a passive welfare check protocol. Cameras outside the property. Time text confirmations. If anything goes sideways, we’re on it.”

I felt my stomach drop.

“You want me to go back,” I said. 

Everyone went still again. 

Except Cynthia. 

“You’re not staying,” she said, “but you need to go back.”

The silence that followed was different. Sharper.

Mia leaned back with an unreadable expression but the acceptance rolled off of her in waves. Her hand squeezed mine for a short second before saying “Explain.” 

Cynthia nodded. “The strength of the case hinges not just on past documentation—but on current, observable conditions. Abby will deny everything. She’ll reframe. Reposition. She’ll say the pills were yours—and have the documentation for it. The emotional instability was yours. The threats? A Miscommunication.”

“And without recent and admissible proof,” Reeva added, “without proximity? She’ll claim you ran out. That you abandoned your kids. That you are unstable and uncooperative. It won’t stop the case, but it could slow it down. A lot.”

Morales’ voice was low, almost apologetic. “We need something recent. Tangible. Concrete context. If you go back and she repeats the behavior—or even attempts to manipulate the narrative—we can act faster, file deeper, and escalate with the weight of law behind us.”

“You want me to walk back into the house of the woman who—” I stopped. Swallowed. “Who told me she’d hurt my kids if I didn’t comply.”

“You’d never be alone,” Cynthia assured. “You’d never be unprotected.”

“But I’d be…in it.”

“In position,” Reeva clarified. “To let the system see her for what she is. And to give your children something stronger than rumor or character witness.”

I looked at Mia. 

She hadn’t said anything. She just sat there, still and unreadable. Her free hand resting on her lap in a loose fist, and the other in my hand. Grounding.

“Are you okay with this?” I asked, voice low.

It came out smaller than I meant it to. Not asking for permission. Just wanting to know if she could live with it if I said yes.

She looked at me then. Really looked.

Her eyes were tired. Not from the day. From all of it.

“No,” she said. Honest. Immediate. “I’m not okay with it.”

She took a slow breath, and when she spoke again, her voice wasn’t shaking—it was steady and stripped bare. 

“But I want you free, Frank. I want you so far out of this that she never gets to say your name like it belongs to her.”

She paused, her gaze holding mine.

“And if the only way to get you there means you have to go back for awhile…I’ll do everything I can to make sure you survive it.”

The silence after that wasn’t empty.

It was full of all the things she didn’t say—like how many nights I’d shown up at her door with bruises and silences, how she’d watched me unravel without ever pushing too hard, how she’s stitched me together more times than the hospital ever had.

I exhale. Sharp. Shaky. 

“I’ll think about it.” 

“You’ll have time,” Cynthia said. “But not too much. The longer the paper trail stays empty, the harder it gets to close the distance between what she’s done and what we can prove.”

I nodded and in my chest, the fear twisted again—this time not at what Abby might do.

But what I might have to do to survive one more time. 

Just to be believed.

[trishxtrix]

The amount of scenes cuts I have in my head is not even funny

[trishxtrix]

[trishxtrix]

Em dash my love 🥰😍🙂‍↕️ hate that em dash is how they measure AI usage now. I can’t even use it in my academic works anymore because of the risk of it being flagged as AI 😭😭😭💀

In my humble opinion