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As a hyperactive kid, Frank Langdon heard “don't run with scissors” as often as he heard his own name.
It’s one of a hundred safety mantras that still keep him alive when his focus is yanked away by a new task, risking injury from being in a rush. Among them: Don't run with scissors; No Red Bull on an empty stomach; No joking with Robby anymore.
Now, he has another mantra for the list: don't turn your head to keep staring at Mel while there's blood on the floor and you're walking in the other direction.
It should be easy enough to remember, if he's not currently concussed.
He'd heard Mel yelp as he slipped and fell. He hit the back of his head on the metal leg of the operating table on the way down.
Prone, he now stares at the bright light overhead and prays that it's the sweet glow of death coming to save him from this humiliation.
“Can someone take a photo for me? My hands are a little busy,” he hears Dr. Garcia say, sounding impossibly far away.
“Langdon, you good?” Robby says, hands also busy, pumping air into the patient on the offending table who has already coded twice.
Langdon wants to say yes, but all his energy in the moment is going toward fighting the blackening corners of his vision.
“Not good. Santos, phone down,” Robby barks.
Frank hears the faint squeaking of tennis shoes and suddenly Mel is there, the operating light shining from behind her like a halo. She looks scared, which he hates.
Frank smiles. The back of his head is really warm, but also cold?
“Hey,” he says, hoping playing it cool will help ease Mel’s worries.
Her eyebrows knit, confusion now mingled with concern.
Frank tries to sit up and reach for her. He gets far enough so that when he vomits, it sprays all over her shoes.
That's when he passes out.
-
The first thing he feels when he begins to wake up is a warm pressure all around his hand. He begins to flex it, and the feeling is gone in a flash.
He opens his eyes to a dim room, and to the same face he'd seen in his last waking moments laying on The Pitt’s floor.
“You're awake!” Mel exclaims, loud enough to make him wince.
She winces back, folding her hands in her lap and beginning to rub one thumb over the other. She inches the rolling stool back a little from his bedside. “Sorry! I'm just relieved.”
At least someone is.
“How bad is it?” Frank groans.
“You have a concussion, and needed seven stitches where you banged your head on the table. There,” she says, pointing to the back of her own head. “It's 3 p.m. You've been sleeping for four hours, in and out. Robby called Abby, she was able to pick your kids up from school on time and they'll stay at her place tonight.”
Frank nods, feeling an unwelcome swell of annoyance for Robby who was still being a hard-ass to his face, but who has been looking out for him in noticeable ways behind his back since his return from rehab. If Robby was an asshole all the time, then Frank could be one right back. But owing him sucks, especially when Robby keeps adding favors to the pile.
And as if reading his mind, “Local pain medication, only. So far.”
It was sweet that Mel thought to say that. Frank would have rejected opiates even if he got a battlefield amputation. The thought of taking pain pills again, especially in The Pitt with Robby near, makes him feel ill.
“How embarrassing was it?” he says.
“Oh. Well.” Mel bites her lip, looking to the curtain like escape might be the best option. “Accidents aren't embarrassing. That's why they call them accidents.”
“Mel, that's not an expression,” Frank says. When she doesn’t answer, he tilts his head, maintaining eye contact. She scrunches her nose and he smiles at that, despite the situation.
“Garcia and Santos thought it was funny at first,” she says, the corners of her mouth turning down before adding brightly. “But after you passed out they were really nice about it! Also the patient is stable and up in intensive care, the procedure was not interrupted.”
Frank closes his eyes and flops back into the pillow, which feels like putting his brain in a tilt-a-whirl. He closes his eyes to fight the nausea. God. They'll never let him forget this. He'll go from ER Ken to Dr. Clutz. Maybe he'll take the mantle of Crash from Javadi.
It was bad enough that he fell in front of Mel, who he spends most of his work days trying to impress. How far has this set him back in his monthslong mission to prove to her that he is reliable and maybe even a little dateable? Today was the first time he literally fell for her, but he’d been making a fool of himself every day. Seeing her smile was a rush, even -- and maybe especially -- when it was at his expense.
Not that she even noticed when he flirted. Flirting with Mel was like throwing a three-pointer in perfect form yet hitting the rim every time. But he couldn’t stop trying. His therapist doesn’t like when he calls himself a masochist, but c’mon.
Seeing that something is wrong but misdiagnosing it, Mel throws fuel on the fire.
“And Santos even did your stitches!”
Frank's eyes fly open.
“Hell. No,” he says, all dizziness and self-pity smothered in an ice bath of cold disdain.
“I'm sure she did a great job,” Mel says, with a halting tone like a hostage negotiator.
Frank takes a beat and tries to sound casual. He fails.
“How can you be sure, did you check?” He says, the words rushing out. Did Santos shave a bald spot? Draw a tiny dick in sharpie above the stitches?
“I'm here to check now,” Mel says, looking like she's holding back laughter.
“This isn't funny,” he says, pleading.
Her cute grin slackens into an equally cute smirk. “It's a little funny.”
She stands up, and moves to turn on the overhead lights, apologizing before she does it. It's like a flashbang and he feels a shooting pain in his head. Once he adjusts to the brighter lighting, he notices that Mel's eyes look a little puffy.
“Don't tell me you were crying over me,” Frank says, teasing but also feeling like he could do a cartwheel, concussion be damned.
“What?” She says, eyes widening. He gestures at her face.
She quickly turns to pull on gloves, clearing her throat. “Allergies. Grass pollen counts are higher every year.” She pauses, and looks up at the ceiling. “It's actually because of climate change, I can send you an article.”
She was totally crying over his unconscious body. He imagines Mel lifting her glasses to dab a tear away with a handkerchief as old-timey dramatic music swells, sniffling and clutching his hand…
That pressure and warmth when he first came-to. He lifts his hand up now, staring at it and feeling his heart squeeze. The knowledge that she was clutching it as he slept feels like a precious and breakable thing. He won't tease her for it.
“I get allergies too,” he says. And then, because he can't help himself, “Not usually in the dead of winter, though. Maybe we're allergic to different things.”
He loves the way Mel's mouth can turn into a straight line with downturned dimples. Santos has given her the nickname Snoopy, and it's something they agree on. He and Santos are only united in their fondness for Mel and hatred of anti-vaxxers.
Mel ignores his allergy comment, and briskly walks over to the bed.
“Lean forward, please,” she says.
He obliges, wondering if his inability to ever keep his mouth shut has been worsened by the concussion.
He's about to cook up something else dumb to say when Mel places one gloved hand on the back of his head, and cradles his forehead with the other. He takes an embarrassingly loud and shuttery breath.
She peels back the bandages to inspect the damage. Her braid is over her shoulder and in his face. She uses a tree oil shampoo.
“These are good, clean stitches, Dr. Langdon,” she says, softly. Everything about her is so soft. Even when she gets frustrated during a procedure, she explains herself calmly. God, he admires her so much.
Somehow, without directing his hands to do so, he takes the end of her braid between his fingers. Soft. He should drop her braid now. He doesn't.
“Minimal swelling,” Mel says, still looking at the back of his head.
She gently rubs a soothing thumb over his forehead, near his hairline. It feels really nice.
Frank suddenly realizes he's about to cry. His head is throbbing and his throat is syrupy and sore.
Today was humiliating. It's already been so hard to be back at work. It's been so hard to go home alone, too. It's just hard all the time. And he has deserved every second of it.
“Split ends,” Mel is saying.
He clears his throat, hoping she's too focused on his wound to notice his expression. The stitch has a split end? How is that even possible? He knew Santos was a saboteur.
He's losing focus. Is Mel playing with his hair? He leans back into her touch. He doesn't want to cry in front of her, but he's reaching the point of no return. His head hurts.
“I haven't had time to get a haircut in ages,” she clarifies.
“Oh,” he says, mortified. He lets the end of her braid drop.
Mel drops her hands from both sides of his head, too, turning to grab a bandage.
“You really should watch where you're going. The way you walk makes me nervous sometimes,” she says.
He turns to look at her, and she gently puts two sure fingers to his jaw to turn him away. He fists the sheets.
“I make you nervous?” he asks, chest heavy, looking up at the ceiling and hoping it comes off as a joke.
“Yes, sometimes,” she says, matter-of-factly. “But in a good way.”
She applies the new bandage by the time his clobbered noggin has time to catch up.
“Dr. King,” He says, turning to face her. Her hand slips down to perch on the nape of his neck, like it will take flight if he spooks it.
She cocks her head slightly, expression open and waiting for him to continue. With any other woman, he'd have asked her out when he first had the impulse, months ago. They had been splitting a sub in the break room and she was all fired up ranting about a patient who was refusing antibiotics, claiming they found something better online. His nails had punctured the crust of his sandwich watching her face flush as she explained all the benefits of proper treatment.
But if he makes a wrong move with Mel, he'll lose the only friendship that has made showing up to work bearable.
He's been staring at her too long. His silly, tired, concussed, and excited brain is sending one clear message through the brain fog: It's now or never, Langdon.
Carefully, giving her time to pull away, he clasps her free hand in his. Her grip on the back of his neck tightens ever so slightly, making him exhale sharply through his nose.
He's going to do it. Now. He'll say everything he's felt for the past year - that he loves talking to her, that she's the smartest person he knows, that he hates seeing how exhausted she is, that she's so so pretty and her hair smells good. Can he smell her hair again please. Wait.
“I am really sorry I threw up on you,” he says, like a loser.
“Oh,” Mel says, casting her eyes down.
“I'm… not sorry I threw up on you?” Frank says.
She snatches her hands back, and practically leaps off the stool to throw away her gloves. He's totally blown something, but he's not quite sure what it is.
Mel plants herself in the middle of the room, fists clenched at her sides, the same determined expression she gets when talking to a difficult patient.
“I don’t want to take advantage of your current vulnerable state,” she begins, slowly, which makes Frank bark out a single, hysterical laugh. Mel furrows her brows.
“But,” Mel powers on, “I historically have been bad at reading romantic signals, which means I tend to miss out on some things. I don’t want to miss out on you, Frank. Please, just tell me. Are you hitting on me? Have you been hitting on me for a while?”
Frank's mouth snaps shut.
He can only nod. Enthusiastically.
“Great,” Mel says. “You'll need to rest up for at least a week. Then you can take me out. I like Thai food. I like that navy blue sweater you have, the one you wore at Whitaker's birthday party. I'd like you to plan the date. I like museums.”
Frank's mouth drops open again.
“Yes, ma'am. I mean- yes, Mel. Yup,” he stutters.
Mel's excitement visibly surges up her body, and she grins. It's a silent and restrained 'yippee!'
Seeing her do that, and because of him, is almost enough to make Frank forget some of the most important instructions of his life. What were they? Tex-Mex. Army pants, he doesn't have those he'll have to buy some…
Mel draws back the curtain, revealing Dana who has been eavesdropping for God knows how long.
Mel stops cold, tension raising her shoulders nearly to her ears, before Dana offers a high-five which Mel quickly fulfills.
She power walks away, and Dana begins typing on her tablet.
“Making note of Dr. King's discharge instructions,” she says, “Thai food…”
Frank flops back down on the pillow, shielding his eyes with his forearm with a groan. He adds another mantra to his list.
No running with scissors.
Watch where you're walking, especially when there's blood on the floor.
And never, ever, underestimate Dr. Melissa King.