marfra
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“What do you think about the severe rash case? Think you want in on it or can I take it?”
Frank turns to face her, which makes her look at him. His eyebrow is raised, an expression of focus on his face. “I think I want you to take a break.”
Mel laughs, glances away before making eye contact again. “That’s a funny joke.”
“No, I'm serious. Mel, go take fifteen,” he says with a firm tone.
“But I don’t need a break.”
Frank places a gentle, yet strong, hand on her shoulder. Mel glances down at it, a bit too stunned to speak; her brain trips over itself. Frank rarely touches her like this. It should be overstimulating — and if it were anyone else, it very well might’ve been — but instead the weight of his hand on her shoulder grounds her. Becomes an anchor.
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He lit a cigarette while leaning up against the wall, Mel falling into a seated position next to him. “Right, I’m sure that it’s frustrating to see autistic patients suffer, what with-”
“Becca, yeah,” Mel nodded. “You were great with her.”
Langdon made a bit of a strange expression. “Sure, with Becca. But also with you.”
“Me?” Mel said quizzically. “I’m not autistic.”
Langdon nodded, a second late. “Right, yeah. Yes.”
Mel doesn't believe she's autistic. So why does Langdon keep treating her like she is?
Bookmarked by marfra
11 Sep 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
It’s comforting and terrifying at the same time, the joy of being known but the horror of being seen.
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She was sort of a little bit thrilled by it, thrilled by his choosing her, thrilled by the STEMI timing, thrilled by the way the department worked so smoothly sometimes she felt like a cog in a machine.
And she liked to think she was a cog in a machine because it meant she was useful and purposeful and something needed or even wanted her there. She thought of Eleanor in The Haunting of Hill House, who said, placidly, she remembered because the word was so pleasing and so sad, “I’ve never been wanted anywhere.” She felt very much like Eleanor, haunted by ghosts, reaching out her hand in the darkness and waking up alone. And her intense wanting was a wound she was sure people could see, bleeding down her forehead, a primal warning sign to back away slowly so no one else would get hurt. What about me, she wanted to beg, what about my wound, but she knew that, too, was a childish fantasy. That it would be more work than anyone was willing to put in to get past the walls she put up in the form of busyness and delight and surface-level vulnerability so they couldn’t see the depth of her hurt and grief lurking inside.
Bookmarked by marfra
08 Aug 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
Great, great Mel voice centred around grief and loneliness with killer observations and passages
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“That’s Abby? Jesus, Langdon. I didn’t know you had a type.”
“What?”
“You know everyone calls Mel your work wife, right? It’s fucked up. Have you seen how she looks at you?”
Bookmarked by marfra
11 May 2026
Bookmarker's Notes
when you need it to hurt
(great Mel introspection but no happy ending)
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Summary
"Do you want to talk about it?" Frank asked, two or three hours later.
Mel paused, fingers hovering over an iPad. "My peanut allergy in South 6?"
Series
- Part 1 of off-screen