Work Text:
Frank sighed heavily when he stepped through the door. He toed his shoes off and hung his jacket on the hook before blindly dropping his bag on the ground. He would pick it up later. The house was quiet. It was late, just past 8 pm, and he was finally home after being stuck at work.
The shift was grueling. Trauma after trauma pulled the ED into a chaotic frenzy of doctors and nurses sprinting from patient to patient. There was a massive car accident right outside the doors of the hospital that left people pinned, bleeding, and on the edge of death. Frank didn’t have a moment to breathe as he was pulled from patient to patient. It reminded him a bit of the PittFest shooting, but at least there wasn’t the background stress of a possible shooter entering the hospital.
Either way all Frank wanted to do was get off his feet. The car ride home wasn’t even as relaxing as he hoped it would be. While it got him off his aching feet, his back ached from his stupid seat that only seemed to make every pain he had worse.
He stepped farther into the house, making sure to be quiet. The kids were definitely asleep by this hour (as much as Tanner protested his bedtime) and Frank didn’t want to disturb Abby. Ever since he came clean about his addiction and went to rehab, things with Abby have been rough. They were never perfect before, but it only got worse with each passing day.
He understood why she was so angry, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. She looked at him differently, didn’t trust him. She questioned his mental state when he was alone with the kids and, since he got out of rehab, hasn’t left him alone with them. It hurt so bad. The kids didn’t know where he was for all those months or why he can’t take them out by himself. Tanner asked questions, but Frank couldn’t answer them. He had no idea what Abby said to him. He deserved her anger, her scorn, and her hatred after everything he put her through.
"You're late." Frank startled at Abby's low voice. He turned to her, squinting his eyes to make out her body sitting on the couch in the dark living room. The tv was off and it didn't look like she was on her phone. She must've been waiting for him.
"Yeah, sorry. Did you watch the news? There was a huge accident right outside the hospital." Frank drifted into the kitchen and pulled open the fridge to peer inside. Abby usually put his portion of dinner in the fridge for him to heat up when he came home late. There didn't seem to be a plate waiting for him, however. In fact, there wasn't much of anything in the fridge. He would need to go shopping tomorrow.
"Dozens of people were injured," he continued as he settled on a glass of water instead of food. It wasn't the same, but he didn't really care. Food could wait. Sitting down could not. "A lot of them were critical so it was all hands on deck." He moved to the living room and sat on the armchair next to the couch. It wasn't the same as spreading his limbs out and stretching his back, but it would work. Abby didn't like when he got in bed before showering after a shift, so that was out of the question. He closed his eyes and slouched in the soft chair.
"You could've left." Frank sighed, but nodded.
"You're right, I could've. I'm sorry." There was a tense silence that stretched between them. "What did you have for dinner?"
"Nothing."
"What?" Frank sat up and winced when his back twinged in response. His eyes were now adjusted to the dark so he could see Abby's stiff posture. "What about the kids? I can go to the store."
"They're not here. I sent them to my mom's."
"Oh. Why?"
"I wanted to talk to you." Frank nodded although she likely couldn't see him. He had a pretty good idea of what was coming.
"Can we at least turn a light on for this conversation?" Abby turned the lamp on with a soft click and Frank blinked against the sudden light. His eyes quickly noticed the empty wine bottle on the table and the flushed look that settled on Abby's face. She was drunk.
There was a moment of silence that Frank let happen. He didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything. Abby spoke first.
"I want a divorce." There it was. Frank knew it was coming. How could he not? After everything he put Abby through it only made sense. It would be hard to manage (financially, physically, mentally) but if it was what Abby wanted then who was Frank to challenge that? He didn't deserve her. He just hoped he would be able to see the kids often.
"Okay," he finally said. "If that's what you want then I understand." He would need to move out. There was probably an open apartment somewhere near the hospital that he could rent. If those were too expensive, he could always find a cheap one farther away. His commute would be longer but without a wife and children to care for and spend time with on a daily basis that probably wouldn't matter. It's not like anyone would be waiting for him to get back.
"What?" Abby's voice was clipped, angry. She turned towards Frank and he could see the way her face scrunched up in anger. She had this line that ran between her eyebrows when she got mad, the wrinkle distorting her usually cheerful face. Her lips curled into a sneer when Frank didn't respond, his own face stretched out in shock. His mouth opened in confusion, but no words came out. What was there to say? Why was she so mad?
"You understand? That's all you have to say?"
"What do you want me to say?" Abby laughed coldly and grabbed at her head.
"I don't know, Frank. Maybe you could act like you actually want to save our marriage. Maybe you could fight for me instead of just accepting a divorce."
"If you want to get a divorce, I won't stop you," he said, mind struggling to understand what Abby wanted. She wasn't happy with him so isn't the only solution to get rid of him. "I don't want it to end like this, but I understand if you do."
"What does that even mean?" Abby leaped up from the couch and jabbed her finger in Frank's direction. "You just do whatever the fuck you want, huh? You get hooked on some damn pills and ruined my life. Do you get that? You ruined my life!"
"Abby—"
"No, Frank, listen! You're supposed to fight for me. You're supposed to act like you actually love me. Like you care for me. But you go and turn into a fucking junkie. You're a bad husband and a bad father!"
Frank reeled back like the words physically struck him. No matter how valid Abby's anger was in his mind, he couldn't help but be hurt. He did his best to be a good father to the kids. He let Abby down as a husband, but he always worked to show his kids the best side of him. Even while in therapy he made an effort. Abby never let the kids visit, which he agreed was for the best, but he made sure to talk to them on the phone whenever he was allowed to. He made them cards and drew them silly pictures in his free time. He made them for Abby too, but their problems couldn't be fixed with a badly drawn picture of them holding hands under a rainbow.
"I can't have this conversation right now." You're drunk, Frank wanted to add but he didn't. The last thing he should be doing was blame Abby. Instead, he stood up with the intention of moving to the bedroom. Maybe he would shower or maybe he wouldn't. He just needed to get out of the living room and away from Abby.
He only made it one step before the empty wine bottle was hurled in his direction. Frank ducked, eyes pressed closed as he shielded his face from the glass that rained over him as the bottle shattered against the wall. At least it wasn't his head.
Frank looked up at Abby with wide eyes, still crouched. Her chest was heaving and there was a wild look on her face.
"What the fuck, Abby?"
"Don't come near me. You're sleeping on the couch after you clean this up." She stumbled her way out of the living room, leaving Frank huddled on the floor. He looked around the room helplessly like if he stared hard enough the scene would change. He would wake up and realize this was all some twisted dream created by his guilty subconscious that told him he didn't deserve anything good in life.
But it didn't. It wasn't a dream. His wife, his hurt, angry wife, threw a bottle at his head that could've done a significant amount of damage if he hadn't ducked. Moving slow, Frank stood up and numbly made his way to the kitchen. He needed to get the broom to sweep up the glass.
Frank moved mechanically through the living room as he mindlessly swept up the glass. He grabbed a few large pieces that slip under the chair, cursing softly when one sliced his palm. He examined it quickly and prescribed himself some antibiotic ointment and a bandage. Frank quickly finished sweeping after wrapping a cloth around his hand before making his way to the bathroom.
He bandaged his hand quickly and without much thought. Since working in the ED, Frank has tended to many minor cuts. He could probably treat them in his sleep. With the thought of sleep, Frank made his way back to the living room before dropping onto the couch like his legs just couldn't hold him up anymore. He really should shower and brush his teeth, maybe ice his back and change into pajamas too, but he just draped himself across the couch and closed his eyes. There was no point in moving.
He distantly thought about what this could mean and let his mind wander to imagine a life where he wasn't a drug addict. Where he and Abby never had any problems even before he got addicted, but instead loved each other like they always pretended they did. It didn't matter, he eventually told himself. This was a one time thing. Abby was drunk and angry, but she would be fine in the morning. He just had to let the anger pass.
-
In the morning, Abby was gone before Frank worked up the courage to leave the living room. He heard her moving around the house, no doubt getting ready to pick up the kids and go to work, but he just pretended to sleep. He just couldn't face her.
Frank ended up being late to his shift since he was too much of a coward to face his wife. He stumbled through the doors flustered, his cheeks red and breathing fast, while mumbling apologies to Robby as he ducked past him. Even after Robby got back from his three-month vacation, things between them were tense. Frank just tried to stay out of his way now. He gave up on apologizing and reviving their old relationship long ago.
"What happened to your hand, Doctor Langdon?" He glanced up at Mel beside him before looking down at his hand. Right, he cut it last night.
"Dropped a cup," he said without any further explanation. He peered at Robby from across the desk, hoping the man didn't notice his injury. The last thing Frank needed was Robby thinking he was too clumsy or injured to do the job.
-
Frank truly believed that after that first night, everything would be okay. But it kept happening. Drunk or sober, it didn't matter. If Abby got angry enough (which she always seemed to be), she hit and he cowered. He knew he could fight back and overpower her easily enough, but he never did. He deserved it after all. After everything he did to her, he deserved whatever she did to him.
The kids started to ask questions after the first week. They wanted to know why mummy was yelling and why daddy had a bruise. Frank just brushed their concerns aside with vague answers he hoped would satisfy their curiosity. One night, after Tanner looked up at him with watery eyes and asked about the bloody cut on Frank's arm, he cornered Abby in the kitchen.
"Tanner is asking questions," he said, whispering as to not bother his already suspicious kids. "We can't fight, okay? You can't keep yelling."
Abby slapped him, offended and feeling accused, but agreed. After that night, she no longer yelled unless the kids were away at her parents'. Instead, she calmly insulted him or, if she was particularly angry, she whisper-yelled at him. He got better at hiding his injuries as well. Abby never really hit his face, always keeping the blows under his clothes, so it wasn't too hard. When she did hit his face, it was nothing more than a quick slap that tended to fade into nothingness overnight.
Besides his kids, no one else noticed. Mel occasionally questioned a bruise on him if his shirt shifted enough to reveal it but didn't push. Dana pointed out his subdued personality but accepted his halfhearted excuse. He could tell she was trying harder to greet and involve him (she was kind in that way), no doubt thinking his somber moods were a result of Robby's persistent ignorance of everything he did. While that certainly didn't help Frank feel any better, it had nothing to do with Robby. All it had to with was the guilt he felt over ruining his wife's life enough that it brought her to physical violence. He deserved it though, for everything he put her through. He couldn't complain.
-
Frank gently nudged his locker closed and stood with a groan. His back was hurting him again, the sharp twinge causing him to wince and twist in an attempt to right the ache. His back begged for rest that he could only achieve by taking a quick nap in an empty room, but he had to go pick up the kids from school since he had an earlier shift. Abby wanted to go out with her old college friend and Frank, in an attempt to soothe her and her anger, quickly offered to pick up the kids so she wouldn't have to worry about them.
Just as Frank was about to walk out the doors, Whitaker flung himself around the corner and stopped with his hands on his knees.
"Doctor Langdon," he panted out, attempting to catch his breath as he blindly pointed behind him. "Multiple traumas incoming. We need all hands for this one."
Frank jogged after Whitaker to see Robby explaining the situation to the doctors and nurses who were huddled up at the desk. Gas line explosion, dozens of injuries, night shift being called in early. He quickly moved through the same system they used during the PittFest shooting.
"Get ready, first ambulance is less than five minutes out." Robby clapped his hands before wandering off to talk to Dana in low whispers. "Langdon, help gather supplies."
"Uh," he awkwardly fished his phone out of his pocket and presented it to Robby. "I need to call Abby. I'm supposed to pick up the kids." Robby nodded and Frank shuffled away from everyone else.
He faced the wall, brought the phone up to his ear, and cupped a hand over his mouth in an attempt to shield himself as much as possible from any eavesdroppers. He suddenly felt insecure calling his own wife, something he had done in the ED a million times before. She picked up on the third ring.
"Abby, I'm so sorry. There was a gas line explosion and they need me to stay to help. I can't pick the kids up. I'm really sorry and I promise I'll make it up to you, okay? I'll do anything. I'm so sorry."
There was a long, tense moment of silence before Abby sighed deeply. "Whatever, Frank." She hung up before he could respond. He stood there for a minute, heart beating wildly in his chest before he managed to force his body to move. He found himself by Robby's side, grabbing boxes of supplies and dropped them where instructed.
"Who did you call?"
"Abby." Frank shot Robby an odd look, but Robby was already giving him a weird look. His brows were pinched in a way that accentuated his wrinkles and he was frowning.
"Everything okay?"
Frank laughed shortly. Awkwardly. "Of course."
Robby opened his mouth to say something else, but the ambulance bay doors opened and a rush of color coded bodies cut their conversation short.
-
Four hours later, the last of the gas line victims were treated. Mohan leaned against the desk heavily, her hair wild from the stress of running around. Mel and Whitaker were standing next to each other silently as they peered down the hall where the makeshift morgue was. They, along with Santos, somehow got the brunt of the casualties and were definitely feeling the effects of it. McKay had vanished, Javadi rushed off to change her vomit-soaked scrubs, Yoyo and Santos stood in the corner, and everyone else just numbly stumbled around after the rush of patients finally ended or started to get the board back up and running.
"Yo, Langdon. Your wife is here."
"My wife?"
"Yeah, she's out in the back." Abbot stuck his thumb toward the ambulance bay and shrugged when Frank asked why, as if he would ever know. Dread filled his body as he slowly made his way over to her. This had to be about him not picking up the kids. What else could it be? Frank tried to reason with himself that there was nothing he could do and that this was the life of an ED doctor, but the guilt of ruining her night spread through his body. His heart rate picked up the closer he got to the ambulance bay and he fumbled with his hands to try and soothe himself.
"Abby?" She was leaning against the car, thankfully parked out of the way of any incoming ambulances, with the kids in the car behind her. He could see Tanner looking at him while Penny was asleep in her car seat. "Abby, I'm sorry."
She didn't say anything, but pushed away from the car. Her face was blank as she made her way over to him. He just stood there, arms limp by his sides even as he continued to apologize, hoping that it would make this situation better.
"I really am sorry. I promise I'll do whatever you want to make up for this, I promise. There was nothing I could do. I'm s—." She slapped him across the face. He cupped the aching skin, watching her as she glanced behind him and turned to make her way back to the car.
"Get home as soon as possible," she said before getting in the car and driving away. Frank watched in shame as Tanner's eyes followed his frozen form as the car moved farther and farther away.
"Did you wife just slap you?" Frank whipped around, eyes wide. Santos stood at the door, her eyes equally as wide.
"It's okay," he said quickly. He dropped his hand and hoped his cheek wasn't too red. "Don't tell anyone."
"Is this… a normal thing?"
"Don't worry about it. It doesn't matter." They stared at each other in silence for a few awkward moments. Frank shivered in the cold. "Why are you even out here?"
"Dana is looking for you. She has a question about one of your patients."
Frank nodded and moved towards the hospital. "Don't tell anyone," he said again when he passed Santos. "Pretend you didn't see anything."
He didn't have a lot of hope that she would pretend what she just saw didn't actually happen, but he wished she would. He knew she had a strong moral code, he'd been on the other side of it before, and that she tended to react strongly to cases of abuse. This wasn't abuse though, he told himself. She doesn't need to make a big deal out of it because it wasn't a big deal. Sure, his wife slapped him around a little, but he deserved it.
While Frank wouldn't call him and Santos friends, they were civil enough to work comfortably together after the nightmare that was her first shift. He apologized about how he treated her that day, thanked her for intervening and, perhaps unintentionally, saving his life and job, and things went smoothly. It wasn't instantly better, but it was a start. Over the last few months, it slowly developed into a friendly-ish coworker dynamic that allowed them to joke around with each other in specific situations.
Maybe she still disliked him enough that she would just forget about what she saw. Frank held onto that thought as he updated Dana on a patient he had earlier in the day. She returned sometime during the chaos that ended only minutes ago with complaints of the pain worsening (something Frank advised her about when she left without fully getting treated).
Just as Frank was finishing the conversation and getting ready to sprint out the door, Robby appeared behind him like he often did. "Frank, I need to talk to you."
"Look," Frank starts after following Robby into a quiet corner away from the business of the ED. "I don't know what Santos told you, but it's fine. It doesn't matter."
"Doesn't matter?" He raised a brow. "What do you think she told me?"
Frank sighed. "She saw Abby… hit me. But it's nothing. I was supposed to pick up the kids and I didn't. It's my fault."
"It doesn't sound like nothing. If Abby is hurting you then this is serious."
Frank ran his hand through his hair, fingers twirling the strands momentarily before he clasped them in front of him. He rocked on his feet slightly, his body suddenly tight with worry. His heart was beating quicker with each second that Robby stared at him with that unforgiving eyes and a drop of sweat rolled down his back. He cleared his throat before chuckling awkwardly.
"I don't even know why Santos told you. She needs to learn to mind her business."
"She told me, Frank, because she witnessed her coworker get abused and doesn't want that on her conscience."
"Abused? Come on, Robby, that's ridiculous. I'm not being abused. Santos just saw something she doesn't understand and is causing a big misunderstanding. Just leave it alone." He tried to move past Robby to finally leave the hospital, but he stuck his arm out, effectively caging Frank in. He cowered back a bit, suddenly reminded of all the times Abby caged him in.
"There's video footage if that's what you're worried about. Evidence."
Evidence? Frank's throat closed a bit as his mouth runs dry. What does Robby even think he's talking about? There was no need for evidence. Whatever the CCTV captured didn't matter. Whatever Santos thought she saw didn't matter.
Feeling very aware of how powerless he was in this position and what usually came after he was cornered like this by Abby, Frank shoved his way past Robby's arm. "Leave it alone," he mumbled. His body was tense and his mind was scattered. After months, Robby finally noticed and all Frank wanted him to do was pretend like he didn't.
"Frank—"
"Just drop it," Frank yelled, his teeth clenched and fists balled in anger. Agitation. Fear. "My life is fucked enough with you trying to get involved! It doesn't matter, okay? Just leave me the fuck alone."
-
Frank entered the house slowly and quietly. He spent the entire drive home drowning in his worries about what was going to go down once he got home and about all the bullshit Robby was talking about earlier. He was already being cautious of his actions around Robby, and now he had to be even more cautious? He had to fight off vague jabs at his addiction while also defending his wife from abuse allegations? The thought of navigating that at work and then going home to Abby made him contemplate just disappearing.
It would be easy. He already had a car and a duffle bag with a change of clothes, some stray granola bars, a mini first-aid kit, and his wallet. He could just keep driving until he was out of Pittsburgh. Maybe he would find a shady motel that didn't check IDs or care what you got up to as long as you paid. He could waste away in some sad little room, static and numb until he just fell asleep one day and it was all over. It would be easy, so fucking easy.
But he couldn't. He had kids and a wife and a good job. Even if he wasn't actually needed by any of those things (which was made clear while he was in rehab without any connection to his family or coworkers), he still had a responsibility to show up and make amends. Who was he to run away from Abby after causing her so many problems over the years? She didn't do anything he didn't deserve.
Frank shuffled his way into the kitchen, shoulder stiff and back aching as he watched Abby. She was leaned over a pot on the stove and Frank could hear the frantic sounds of the water boiling. There was a bottle of wine next to her on the counter. It was open and, from the drops of wine that were no doubt staining the countertop, Abby likely had drunk most of it.
"Who was that girl?"
"Just a coworker. Where are the kids?"
"Did she see anything?"
"It's taken care of. You don't need to worry. Where are the kids?"
Abby whipped around, her face contorted in anger, and threw the wine bottle at Frank. He lifted his arm to shield his face, but the glass still cut into the skin under his eye as the bottle exploded against his arm. He shouted as he stumbled back and away from the glass that rained down over his feet. Pain crawled up his arm and sunk into his face as blood dripped freely from the scattered cuts. He could feel it slide down his face before dripping off his jaw with a few stray drops running down his neck or settling into the corner of his mouth. A metallic taste burst in his mouth as he brought his hand up to smear the blood around just to see it on his fingers as if the feeling of the blood on his cheek wasn't enough.
"They're with my mom," she sneered. She was stirring the pot now; movements tense and erratic. Frank wondered if there was even anything in the boiling water. "That's all you care about. You don't care about me anymore."
"Abby, I do. I do care about you, but you need to stop. People will wonder about the cut, especially after San—my coworker saw you hit me today." Frank had a sudden worry that Abby would do something to Santos if she found out her name. It was insane and he immediately dismissed it, but the mere thought of it was enough to keep him quiet.
"You don't care!" Abby stomped over to Frank and the glass on the floor scattered as her slippered feet kicked it around. She slapped him with a loud cracking sound, and her hand was stained with his blood when she pulled it away. Before he had a chance to recover, she shoved him to the ground. He managed to avoid the shards of glass that littered the floor, grunting as he fell awkwardly. A twinge of pain run up his back which reminded him of yet another ache his body was currently experiencing.
"You were a better husband when you were a junkie!" She paced the floor in front of Frank who accepted defeat and cowered on the ground as he panted in pain. The blood made his skin slick and uncomfortable. There were bloody drips on his shirt and a solid bloody handprint right in the center of his chest. "I want a divorce."
It wasn't the first time Abby had said that and it likely wouldn't be the last. No matter how many times she claimed wanting a divorce, it always ended the same way. Frank would accept, she would get mad, and they would stay together. He was tired of it. There was no winning the situation even if he did disagree. It was always going to end the exact same way.
"Okay," he mumbled, sighing when Abby stopped her pacing to shoot him an icy glare.
"Okay?" she questioned, voice high and mocking. "See! You never fight for me! You don't care about me at all." She snatched the pot off the stove and threw it at Frank as she screamed, "you don't love me!"
Frank scrambled out of the way just as the boiling water leaped from the pot. It hit the ground just moments before the pot smashed into the tile and bounced off to the side. The water splashed and a few stray drops burned Frank's arm. He cursed and scrambled to the side a bit more, unknowingly moving into the scattered pile of glass. Sucking in a shaky breath, he cautiously lifted his hands to see tiny pinpricks of shiny glass embedded into his palm. Based on the pain in his feet, he assumed the same could be said for them. He really regretted carelessly kicking his shoes off at the door when he got home.
Abby continued to yell over him for a minute or two before he stepped over the mess and disappeared into their bedroom. Frank looked around the floor with an odd numbness consuming each and every one of his pains until everything felt muffled and was nothing more than a dull, manageable ache.
The water was slowly seeping into the grout and spreading across the floor until it was mixed with the wine from earlier. The tile the pot landed on was cracked. Glass, some of it bloody, glinted in the light. Specks of blood colored the floor and Frank watched as a few little drops were captured from the flow of water.
He needed to get up. He needed to take care of his wounds. But it would be so easy to just lay on the ground until morning came. It would be even easier to never get up again. Just like with the motel, he could lay unmoving until he just fell asleep. He wouldn't have to worry about anything anymore, but let his body take the rest it so desperately wanted. He closed his eyes.
Frank shifted slightly and gasped at the sharp press of glass into his heel. Right, he needed to look after his wounds. His face needed to be cleaned and bandaged. The glass needed to be taken out of his hands and feet. The cuts on his arms needed to be washed.
Frank worked slow. Getting onto his knees and hobbling over to the bathroom was tiring, so he went at a leisurely pace. He slowly picked the tiny glass shards out of his skin until almost all of them were gone (there were definitely some still stuck, but there was only so much he could do himself) and wrapped his feet. He kept his hands unwrapped so it was easier to clean up the blood that covered his skin before taking care of the rest of his wounds. His arm was easy as most of the shallow cuts stopped bleeding long before he even made it into the bathroom.
His face, however, was a different story. As he cleaned and poked at the cut under his eye while peering at it through the mirror, Frank determined he probably needed stitches. That was something he might be able to do himself, but he definitely wasn't willing to try. Instead, he stuck a bandage on it and deemed it a problem for tomorrow. The growing bruise on his cheek and tiny red circle burns on his arm was also not a problem for tonight. All Frank wanted to do was sleep and with every passing minute, his eyelids drooped lower and lower until he could barely see a thing.
Frank half-shuffled, half-limped his way to the living room and dropped onto the couch. Not even a minute later, he was out cold.
-
Frank looked even worse the next morning. He stared at himself with tired eyes and sighed. So much for ER Ken or whatever YoYo called him. The bloody bandage under his eye hid most of the damage, but he could see stubborn flakes of dried blood that refused to move and the swelling of the cut. The redness stretched down to his cheek until it mixed with the bruise on his cheek that vaguely resembled a blotchy hand. Frank considered changing the bandage, but decided against it. He really should get it stitched and exposing it to the air wouldn't help the healing process.
As he poked at the tiny minor burns from the boiling water, Frank considered calling out of work. He would have to leave in about ten minutes if he wanted to make it on time and hadn't even gotten dressed. He was still wearing his bloody shirt and yesterday's jeans. His hair was dirty since he never showed after getting home from work, the product he put in it making it stick up oddly. Reaching a cut up hand to his head, he smoothed his hair down until it looked somewhat presentable.
It would be suspicious if he called out of work given the conversation he had with Robby last night, but going in with all these injuries would be even worse. Both options were basically admitting to Robby (and all his other coworkers who would inevitably see his injuries and likely knew about Abby's little slap knowing how fast gossip spread in the ED) that something was wrong. That Abby was abusing him. The word made Frank shudder. It didn't sound right. He wasn't sure that's what was happening, but last night was more than a little slap or shove. Abby cut him badly and, although Frank still couldn't believe it, threw a pot of boiling water at him. If he hadn't moved, the burns would've been severe. Life changing.
Frank stepped away from the mirror gingerly until he was standing in the kitchen. The mess from last night was still spread across the floor. The water was dry, but the pot was still sitting next to the cracked tile. There was glass and blood were strewn about, some of the blood smeared on the tile from where Frank tried to walk. In fact, he noticed a trail of bloody footprints leading to the bathroom.
He pulled out his phone and took a couple pictures. Evidence, or whatever.
Stepping away from the kitchen, Frank decided to go to work. Or, he supposed, to the hospital as a patient. He needed his face stitched anyway. Someone should probably pull the glass out of his feet too, if possible. Maybe they could better examine the cuts on his arm too.
-
The drive to The Pitt was painful. With each push of the gas and break pedal, Frank winced. The small cuts littering his feet ached with each movement, and the leftover glass stung as it shifted. When he got to the hospital, the walk was even worse.
Despite looking like a patient in his bloody, old clothes that he didn't bother changing out of and his bandaged, bruised body, Frank walked into the ED like he was there to work. As he stepped through the doors with a shocked side-glance from Lupe, he wondered if he should've called Robby in advance. He barely made it five steps before multiple eyes were on him and people were jogging his way.
"Doctor Langdon," Javadi stopped in front of him, her eyes wide and mouth dropped open. Princess was right behind her and Frank could see Donnie and Ahmad moving in close from his left. "Are you alright?"
Frank nodded before moving his tired eyes to scan the ED. He caught the eyes of McKay and Santos but quickly looked away. Looking back at Javadi, Frank cleared his throat. "Can you get Robby for me?" She nodded with that stunned look still on her face and hurried off.
"Do you need to sit?" He shook his head without even looking at Princess and ignored Ahmad's question of who hurt him. Maybe he thought it was a patient. Frank might be able to fabricate a story about a patient who attacked him at the end of his shift last night, but it would be hard to convince Robby. The thought of Robby had Frank scanning the floor once again just to see if he could lay his eyes on the man but he, and Javadi, were nowhere to be found.
Frank did meet Santos's eyes again though. She looked a bit shocked and frozen in place like maybe she didn't expect whatever she saw last night to escalate so drastically. Frank didn't expect it either. Feeling a deep shame settle in the pit of his stomach, he looked away and let his head drop to his chest. He breathed through a sudden surge of worry that he had made a very bad mistake showing up like this. If he moved quick enough, he might be able to make it out the door before anyone caught up to him, injured feet be damned.
Before Frank could decide whether or not making a run for it was a terrible idea, a solid, warm hand landed on his shoulder gently. He glanced up to see Robby standing in front of him, his face pinched in concern. Javadi was at the desk whispering to Santos and Whitaker, but Frank didn't mind.
"Frank, are you alright?"
He shrugged, feeling a bit too ashamed to say anything.
"Come on. Let me check you over."
-
Robby worked in almost complete silence. He occasionally asked Frank to shift slightly and warned him that something might hurt but was quiet otherwise. Frank was sure he wanted to ask question, but he didn't. He just wiped away any remaining flakes of blood, cleaned tiny cuts and burns, fished out obvious pieces of glass from Frank's damaged feet, and carefully examined the cut under Frank's eyes before determining stitches were necessary.
Frank stayed silent, too. There was a small sound here or there as Robby pushed on an aching patch of skin (he gently prodded old bruises that were almost completely healed as well as fresh ones), but he didn't have anything he wanted to say. He debated saying something, convinced that it would simultaneously be the best and worst decision he could make. If he came clean, how would it affect his kids? His job? How drastically would his life change and how many of those changes would be for the better?
It wasn't until Robby finished up stitching his face and leaned back with a sigh that Frank decided. He looked into Robby's tired, worn eyes before dropping his head just like earlier. Taking a deep, calming breath, Frank allowed himself to speak with a shy glance.
"Abby's been hitting me for the last few months." Robby stayed quiet for a few moments, no doubt shocked. He masked it well after years of working in the ED, but Frank could tell he wasn't expecting to hear the truth. It gave him enough time to expand. "I deserve it though."
"What? What are you talking about?" He opened his mouth to say something else, but Frank cut him off. He knew exactly what Robby was about to say (he didn't deserve it) and he needed Robby to understand that he did deserve it. After everything, he did.
"I left her alone for months, Robby. I lied and I did drugs behind her back. I disappointed her and I disappointed the kids. I disappointed you. After everything I put her through from the moment I met her, I deserve to be slapped around a bit."
"This isn't being 'slapped around a bit,' Frank. This is abuse. Nothing you've done makes you deserve to be attacked in your own home. The drugs…" Robby sighed, trailing off and shaking his head. "Even the drugs aren't an excuse to hurt you. You did lie, but you're making an effort to get better. I know you are. You don't deserve to be abused, Frank."
He wrung his freshly wrapped hands together and blinked away the sudden pressure behind his eyes. In all the months this had been going on, Frank never felt the need to cry, but now the feeling washed over him until he almost felt suffocated with it. He cleared his throat and spoke with a slightly trembling voice. "I don't know. I can't do anything because of the kids. If I leave, I'll never see them again."
As much as Frank wanted to believe the Abby he married would never deliberately separate him from his kids, he knew she would now. She already tried as much as possible by not allowing him to be alone with them. Picking the up from school today was the first opportunity he had with them since he got out of rehab.
"We'll figure out what to do, okay? But you can't keep going home." He titled his head to catch Frank's eyes and smiled sadly, his face still wrinkled in concern. He looked tired like he usually did after finishing a rough shift despite it being seven in the morning. Frank attempted a small smile back, but the tears brimming in his eyes probably made it look quite pathetic. "Will she hurt the kids?"
"No, they don't deserve it," he answered instantly. Despite being so unsure of things, Frank knew that was true. Abby loved the kids and would never lay a hand on them. She had never been wronged by them.
"Frank, neither do you. I need you to understand that you don't deserve to be hurt." Frank's shoulders began to shake in an effort not to cry as the tears in his eyes clung to his eyelashes and teetered on the edge of his waterline. Robby placed a hand on his trembling shoulders and, with the touch of hand that had no intention of hurting him, Frank finally let himself cry.