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Langdon gets to work early.
Not because he’s eager — eager isn’t the right word — but because standing in the hallway outside the ED doors feels worse than walking in. He’s sober. He’s clean. He’s done the work. None of that changes the way his chest tightens when he badges in, the way his hands feel too visible at his sides.
The Pitt smells the same. Bleach and coffee and something metallic that never quite goes away. The monitors hum. The board is already half full.
Nothing has changed.
Everything has.
He spots Robby almost immediately. Robby’s at the charge desk, scrolling through the board with that familiar focus, jaw set, shoulders squared. For half a second, Langdon almost forgets — almost feels like he can walk up, make some stupid comment, pretend they’re still standing on the same ground.
Then Robby looks up. The look is not angry.
That’s worse.
It’s professional. Flat. Careful. Like Langdon is a variable Robby has decided to manage instead of engage.
“Morning,” Langdon says quietly.
Robby nods once. “You’re on triage.”
No welcome back. No acknowledgment of rehab. No comment at all, really.
Langdon swallows. “All day?”
“Yes,” Robby says, already turning back to the board. “If that’s a problem, we can revisit your schedule.”
“No,” Langdon says quickly. “No, it’s fine.”
Robby doesn’t look at him again.
Frank takes his place at triage, the narrow space already filling with patients, noise, impatience. It’s controlled chaos — the kind he used to thrive in. Now it feels like standing on a stage with no script.
He does his job.
He asks the right questions. Keeps his voice calm. Documents carefully. He is hyper-aware of his hands, his tone, the way he moves through space. He double-checks himself constantly.
Don’t rush. Don’t shortcut. Don’t assume.
Across the department, Santos watches him intermittently, expression unreadable. She’s polite when they cross paths. Distant. She’s the one who found him, months ago, hands shaking as she reported what she’d seen. Langdon doesn’t blame her.
He blames himself.
By late morning, he starts to feel… wrong.
It’s subtle at first. A warmth creeping up his neck, like embarrassment without a cause. His ears feel hot. His scalp itches beneath his hair.
Anxiety, he tells himself. First day back. Of course it’s anxiety.
He keeps going.
The patient in front of him is a middle-aged woman with abdominal pain, clothes stained with something sticky and sweet-smelling. She apologizes repeatedly as she explains she spilled juice all over herself earlier while prepping fruit for her kids.
“It’s lychee,” she says. “My kids can't get enough of it."
He finishes the triage, hands her off, wipes down the counter.
The itching doesn’t stop.
It gets worse.
His throat feels… tight. Not painful. Just narrower, like the air has to work harder to get through. He clears his throat once, then again.
“Okay,” he mutters to himself. “Okay.”
He takes a sip of water.
It doesn’t help.
His chest feels heavy now. Breathing takes effort, like pulling air through a straw. His heart starts racing, hard and fast, far too fast for anxiety alone.
Frank freezes.
This is not right.
He touches his neck, feels the skin there — flushed, warm. He catches his reflection in the monitor screen and barely recognizes himself. His face is red. His lips look swollen.
“Oh,” he whispers.
No. No, no, no.
He steps away from the desk, suddenly unsteady, and tries to catch Robby’s eye.
“Dr. Robby,” he says, voice hoarse. “I—”
The words cut off as a coughing fit rips through him, violent and uncontrollable. His knees buckle.
Everything happens at once.
Santos is the first to move. “Langdon!”
Robby’s head snaps up instantly.
Frank tries to speak again, but all that comes out is a strangled sound. His vision tunnels. Black creeps in at the edges.
“I can’t—” he gasps. “Can’t breathe—”
Langdon hits the floor hard.
There’s no graceful slide, no slow collapse that lets anyone tell themselves it’s benign. One moment he’s upright, hand braced against the triage desk, and the next his knees fold and his shoulder slams into the tile with a sound that turns heads across the department.
“Frank!” Santos shouts.
Robby is already moving.
He drops beside Langdon, one knee hitting the floor, hands firm and practiced as they find Frank’s neck and jaw. Langdon’s skin is flushed deep red now, splotchy, swelling visibly even as Robby watches.
“Frank,” Robby says sharply. “Look at me.”
Frank’s eyes are wide, panicked, darting wildly. He tries to answer but all that comes out is a strangled, high-pitched wheeze.
“I—” He claws at his throat. “I can’t—”
“I know,” Robby says immediately, voice steady but urgent. “You’re having an allergic reaction. Stay with me.”
Dana is there now, already snapping gloves on. “Vitals?”
“Anaphylaxis,” Robby says without hesitation. “Unknown trigger. Airway swelling fast.”
Santos swallows hard, hovering. “He was fine two minutes ago.”
Robby nods once. “That’s how this works. Gurney. Now.”
They lift Frank onto the bed as his breathing worsens — each inhale a desperate, whistling effort, chest heaving like his body is fighting itself.
Frank grips Robby’s sleeve with shaking fingers.
“I don’t—” he gasps. “I don’t know what’s happening.”
Robby leans in close, eyes locked on his. “I do. And I’ve got you.”
“Epi,” Robby orders. “IM. Now.”
The needle goes in. Frank jerks, breath hitching sharply.
“Okay,” Robby says softly. “That’s going to make your heart race. That’s normal. You’re okay.” He knows that Langdon knows all of this - he trained him for fuck's sake, but it feels better, more human, to talk him through it.
Frank shakes his head weakly, tears spilling over now. “Ab-Abby...”
Robby’s chest tightens painfully, but his voice doesn’t waver. “We'll call her.”
They don’t wait.
“Steroids,” Robby says. “IV. I want methylpred now.”
Dana moves instantly. “Already drawing.”
Frank coughs violently, a wet, choking sound tearing out of him. His lips look thicker now. His tongue too big for his mouth.
“BP’s dropping,” Dana warns. “Sat’s falling.”
Robby’s jaw tightens. “Second epi. Grab an intubation tray!”
Frank’s eyes flicker with terror as he hears the word.
“No,” he tries to say — it comes out as a broken sound. His hands fumble weakly at the rails.
Robby catches his wrists gently but firmly, grounding rather than restraining.
“Frank,” he says quietly, leaning in until their foreheads almost touch. “Listen to me.”
Frank’s gaze locks onto his, desperate.
“We need to help you breathe,” Robby continues. “Your throat is swelling shut. I don’t want to wait until we're out of time.”
Frank shakes his head, panic surging. His breathing becomes erratic, fast and shallow, eyes glassy.
“I don’t want—” He chokes. “I don’t want...tube.”
Robby squeezes his hand tightly. "This is no longer a debate Frank. I'm not letting you die in my ED." Robby says fiercely. “Not today. Not here.”
They push steroids. Fluids run wide open.
The swelling doesn’t stop.
Robby knows then — that quiet, awful certainty settling in his gut.
“We’re intubating,” he says. “Now.”
Frank’s eyes widen in terror.
“Frank,” Robby says, gripping his forearm, voice low and unshakable. “I need you to trust me.”
Frank’s breath comes in ragged gasps. He nods once — barely.
Robby looks up. “Push Ketamine and Roc.”
He turns back to Frank immediately.
“This is going to make you feel very sleepy,” Robby says calmly. “Just let it happen, I’m right here.”
Frank’s breathing stutters. “Don’t— don’t leave.”
Robby leans closer, his voice the last thing Frank hears clearly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The sedative goes in.
Frank’s eyes flutter, panic breaking into confusion. His grip loosens.
“I—” he murmurs. “Robby—”
“I’ve got you,” Robby says softly. “You're okay.”
The paralytic follows.
Frank goes still.
The room tightens instantly.
“Okay,” Robby says, all softness gone now, every edge honed. “Let’s move.”
The swelling makes visualization brutal. Tongue enlarged. Tissue angry and distorted.
Robby’s heart pounds, but his hands are steady.
“Suction,” he orders. “This one's too big. Get me a 7-0.”
First attempt — no view.
Oxygen drops.
“Again,” Robby says immediately. “No hesitation.”
Second attempt. He adjusts, angles carefully, fighting the narrowing space.
For a moment — just one — he thinks they’re too late.
Then the tube passes.
“CO₂ yellow,” someone says.
“There,” Dana confirms. “We’re in.”
Air rushes into Frank’s lungs, mechanical but lifesaving.
The monitors respond slowly — numbers creeping upward, reluctant but real.
Robby exhales shakily and steps back, chest heaving now that the immediate danger has passed.
Frank lies still, sedated, ventilated, alive.
Robby stares at him for a long moment longer than necessary.
His hands are shaking.
He shoves them into his pockets so no one sees.
Because for a few seconds there — terrifying, razor-thin seconds — Robby thought he was going to lose him.
And he doesn’t know how many more of those he has left in him.
Frank doesn’t wake right away.
The sedatives wear off in uneven waves, leaving him suspended somewhere between sleep and awareness. His body twitches occasionally, hands flexing weakly against the restraints they placed gently, just in case. The ventilator hums beside him, steady and indifferent.
Robby doesn’t leave.
Not when the adrenaline finally drains and his legs start to ache. Not when Dana suggests he grab coffee. Not when the board fills up again and the ED keeps moving without them.
He stands at the foot of the bed at first, arms crossed tight across his chest, eyes fixed on Frank’s face like if he looks away something terrible will happen. Eventually he pulls up a chair and sits, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together hard enough that his knuckles blanch.
He watches the monitors.
Counts the breaths.
Listens to the rhythm of the vent.
Every few minutes, he leans forward and checks Frank himself — pupils, pulse, chest rise — even though he trusts the machines. Even though he knows better.
This one is personal.
Santos lingers near the doorway, pretending to organize supplies that don’t need organizing. Her shoulders are tight, her gaze darting between Frank and Robby.
“I didn’t know,” she says quietly at one point. “About the allergy.”
Robby doesn’t look at her. “I don't think he did either. Wasn't in his chart.”
There’s a long pause.
“I’m glad you caught it,” Santos adds. “You moved fast.”
Robby nods once. “So did you.”
It’s not absolution. But it’s something.
Hours pass.
When Frank finally stirs more meaningfully, it’s subtle — a furrowed brow, a faint shift of his head against the pillow. The ventilator alarms briefly as he starts to fight it, confusion bleeding into panic.
Robby is at his side instantly.
“Hey,” he says, low and grounding. “Frank. You’re okay.”
Frank’s eyes crack open, unfocused and wide. He tries to speak, panic flaring when he can’t.
Robby presses a hand gently to his shoulder. “I know. You’ve got a tube in. Don’t fight it.”
Frank’s breathing becomes erratic, chest heaving against the ventilator.
“You’re safe,” Robby continues steadily. “You had a bad allergic reaction. We’re past the worst part.”
Frank’s gaze locks onto Robby’s face like a lifeline.
Robby nods reassuringly. “I’m right here.”
The panic eases — not completely, but enough. Frank’s shoulders relax a fraction. His breathing syncs better with the machine.
Robby exhales slowly, relief washing through him.
“Good,” he murmurs. “That’s it.”
They wean the sedation gradually, carefully. Steroids continue. The swelling recedes just enough that Robby starts thinking ahead instead of just surviving the moment.
By the time they’re ready to extubate, Frank is awake, scared, but stable.
Robby leans in close before they pull the tube.
“This part’s uncomfortable,” he warns gently. “But it’ll be quick. I need you to cough when I tell you to.”
Frank nods weakly, eyes shining.
“You’re doing great,” Robby adds quietly. “I know this is a lot.”
They pull the tube.
Frank coughs hard, gagging, voice raw and hoarse as air finally moves freely again. He gasps, then coughs again, chest burning.
Robby keeps a hand on his back, steady and present. “That’s it. Breathe. You’re okay.”
Frank’s voice is barely a whisper when he finally manages it. “Thought… I was dying.”
Robby meets his eyes. “You were close.”
Frank swallows hard. “You stayed.” It's both a statement and a question.
“Yes,” Robby says simply.
Frank’s voice is still rough when he finally speaks again, but the panic has eased enough that his words come out intact.
Robby stays at the bedside, arms crossed loosely now instead of clenched, posture less like a shield and more like someone choosing to remain present.
“I thought,” Frank says quietly, “that if I came back and just did the work… everything would go back to normal.”
Robby exhales slowly through his nose. “That’s not how trust works.”
Frank nods. “I know.”
There’s a long pause. The kind that used to make Frank nervous — the kind Robby used to fill with teaching.
Robby stares at the floor for a moment, then looks back at him. “I’m still angry,” he says plainly. “At you. And at myself.”
Frank’s shoulders tense. He doesn’t interrupt.
“I should’ve seen it,” Robby continues. “I was so busy being pissed that I didn’t stop to ask why. Why you were struggling. Why you didn't feel you could come to me. I let my disappointment turn into distance.”
Frank swallows. “You didn’t make me steal.”
“No,” Robby agrees. “But I made it harder for you to ask for help.”
Frank’s eyes sting. “You were the one person I didn’t want to disappoint.”
Robby’s jaw tightens, emotion flickering across his face before he reins it in.
“I know,” he says quietly. “And that’s why it hurt so much.”
Silence stretches between them again — but this time it’s different. Softer. Less brittle.
“I see the work you’ve done,” Robby says finally. “Rehab. The honesty. Owning it instead of hiding. Rumor has is you even told Louie about the Librium.”
Frank nods. “I don’t want to be that guy anymore.”
Robby studies him for a long moment, then nods once. “Good. Because you're better than that.”
Frank lets out a shaky breath — not relief, exactly, but something close to it.
“I missed you,” he admits.
Robby’s expression shifts, something familiar breaking through the professional distance. “You were never just my resident,” he says quietly. “You know that.”
Frank’s throat tightens. “Yeah.”
Robby straightens slowly. “I can’t promise things will go back to the way they were. But I’m not done with you. Not by a longshot, kid.”
Frank looks up at him, hope flickering carefully into place. “That’s enough.”
Robby gives a faint, wry smile. “For now.”
Robby has to step away soon after — a trauma rolling in, the ED demanding its usual chaos. When he leaves, he does it with a nod instead of a glance away.
It feels like progress.
Santos comes in a few minutes later, vitals machine in hand, posture cautious. She keeps her eyes on the monitor at first, efficient and professional.
“How’s your breathing?” she asks.
“Better,” Frank says. “Still feel like I swallowed sand.”
She snorts despite herself. “That tracks.”
She checks his blood pressure, adjusts the cuff, listens to his lungs. Silence stretches, awkward but not hostile.
Frank breaks it.
“I owe you an apology.”
Santos freezes — just for a second — then looks at him.
“For how I treated you,” he continues. “And for putting you in the position I did. You didn’t deserve that.”
Her expression tightens, then softens. “I didn’t expect that.”
“You reported me,” Frank says. “And you were right to.”
Santos blinks. “You’re… thanking me?”
“Yes,” Frank says simply. “You probably saved my life.”
She exhales slowly, some of the tension bleeding out of her shoulders. “I wasn’t exactly… great, either. Before.”
Frank raises an eyebrow.
“I crossed lines,” she admits. “With patients. With you. You were right to call me out.”
Frank nods. “We were both a mess.”
Santos huffs a laugh. “Yeah.”
She finishes the vitals, types a quick note, then pauses at the door.
“For what it’s worth,” she says, not quite meeting his eyes, “I’m glad you’re back.”
Frank smiles faintly. “Me too.”
They aren’t friends.
But the air between them is warmer now. Less sharp.
And when Robby returns later, checking Frank’s chart with quiet focus, Frank watches him with something like gratitude instead of fear.
Not everything is fixed.
But something is finally moving forward.
Frank doesn’t mention the headache.
He keeps his eyes closed, face angled slightly away from the overhead lights, jaw clenched hard enough that it aches. Every sound feels too loud now — monitors beeping, carts rolling, voices bleeding through curtains like knives. His throat burns from the tube, raw and scraped, every swallow a reminder of how close he came to losing his airway.
He tells himself it’s fine.
That this is just part of it.
That asking for anything would look like weakness.
Migraines have been worse since he stopped using benzos — sharper, more insistent, less forgiving. He rides them out most of the time. This one is building, slow and ugly, a pressure blooming behind his eyes that makes the world tilt when he shifts even slightly.
He presses his fingers into his temples and breathes shallowly.
Don’t be a problem. Don’t need anything.
The curtain rustles.
Frank tenses, then stills when he realizes who it is.
Robby doesn’t say a word.
He steps into the room like he belongs there — like he always has — and without comment reaches up and switches off the overhead lights. The sudden dimness is almost shocking in its relief.
Frank exhales before he can stop himself.
Robby moves quietly, deliberately. He pulls an ice pack from the freezer, wraps it in a towel, and places it gently against Frank’s forehead.
The cold is sharp, grounding.
Robby rests a hand briefly on Frank’s shoulder — not gripping, not lingering — just a firm, reassuring squeeze.
Frank’s eyes sting unexpectedly.
“Thanks,” he whispers, voice rough.
Robby nods once, already stepping back. No lecture. No questions. Just presence.
Then he’s gone again, swallowed by the ED.
The migraine doesn’t listen.
It deepens, cruel and relentless. The pressure spikes behind Frank’s eyes until it feels like his skull might split. Nausea rolls in hard and fast, sudden enough that he barely has time to turn before he retches over the side of the bed.
The pain in his throat is immediate and brutal — every gag scraping raw tissue, every heave lighting up nerves that are already screaming.
“I’m sorry,” Frank gasps between retches, tears streaming down his face. “I’m sorry—”
The curtain pulls back again.
Robby is there instantly, one hand steadying the basin, the other braced against Frank’s back.
“Hey,” he says softly. “You’re okay.”
“I’m sorry,” Frank repeats, voice breaking. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
“Stop,” Robby says gently but firmly. “You don’t need to apologize.”
Frank shakes his head weakly, nausea still rolling through him. “I’m being— I’m being difficult—”
“You’re being human,” Robby replies. "Let's get you some pain relief."
Frank swallows hard, eyes squeezed shut against the pain. “I don’t want— I don’t want drugs.”
Robby stills.
Then he understands.
“Oh,” he says quietly. “Frank. No.”
Frank opens his eyes, fear flashing. “I can’t— I can’t go back there.”
“I’m not talking about that,” Robby says immediately. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”
Frank’s breathing eases just a fraction.
“I’m putting in orders for Tylenol,” Robby continues, calm and precise. “Sumatriptan. Zofran for the nausea. That’s it.”
Frank hesitates, then nods. “Okay.”
Robby squeezes his shoulder again. “I'm proud of you for telling me.”
They give the meds slowly, carefully. Robby stays nearby, dimming the room further, making sure the ice pack stays cold. Frank curls slightly onto his side, exhausted, the edge of the pain finally blunting enough that he can breathe without wincing.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs again, softer now.
Robby sits at the edge of the bed. “You survived anaphylaxis and a difficult airway today,” he says. “That sounds more like a win than anything, Frank.”
Frank’s eyes flutter closed.
Robby stays until Frank’s breathing evens out, until the tension drains from his shoulders and sleep finally claims him.
It’s late when Abby arrives.
She looks tired and worried and relieved all at once, her hand flying to her mouth when she sees Frank sleeping, color finally back in his face.
Robby steps out to meet her quietly, gives her a brief update, keeps it factual but reassuring.
“He’s okay,” Robby says. “He had a rough day. But he’ll be just fine. Just...no lychee in the home, please?”
Abby nods, eyes shiny. “Thank you.”
When Frank wakes enough to leave, he looks smaller somehow — drained, wrapped in a blanket, still hoarse — but steady.
As they head toward the exit, Robby catches his eye.
Frank pauses, uncertain.
Robby smiles — just a little. “Good work today, Frank.”
Frank’s throat tightens.
“Thanks,” he says quietly.
It isn’t absolution.
But it’s recognition.