Work Text:
The garage is dark here by the back wall.
The ceiling lights were switched out during the last renovation which took place in the eighties, as far as Frank knows. Robby once mentioned that, back when he got a new garage door installed. Two rows of fluorescent tubes light up the front half of the room pretty well, but the one by the shelves is dim, at the end of its lifespan.
He helps himself out with a headlamp sometimes, when he's looking for something particular. It's the same one he used back when he still ran marathons, when a race started in the early morning hours so the runners could finish before it got too hot. He did one in Arizona once, where he almost stepped on a snake that was warming itself on the asphalt. The saguaros looked like people in the darkness of the desert, like giant ghosts. He still remembers the dawn that day, the way the sun colored the sky pink. But that's all over now. The lamp has been hanging on a hook by the garage door ever since he moved in and put it there, unused and collecting dust but for these few searches.
It wouldn't help him now. He's standing here by the heavy-duty shelf and doesn't remember what he was looking for. The doorway effect cleaned his purpose right out of his head.
He grips the shelf hard and looks around. Maybe he'll remember once he sees the thing. He's shivering, his body tense, armpits clammy and cold. Standing here on the concrete barefoot, in just jogging pants and a sleep T-shirt, is not a great idea.
There is a box with books that belong to him - outdated editions of medical tomes and some novels he's already read. He should throw that out. He pulls at it, groans under his breath because it's heavy, and half lifts, half drops it on the floor. Dust whirls up and makes him sneeze. He picks one of the books up, flips it open on a random page, and hits a chapter on thoracic vascular anatomy.
It's definitely not what he was looking for. There's a box of knick-knacks he never unpacked right next to it. He peeks in, discovers at first glance a salt shaker and a cracked mug he used as a pen holder. He pulls that box out as well and upends its contents into the larger one. A star-shaped baby rattle. A stack of photos fans out. A medal. An outdoors cutlery set. Like he's ever gone camping.
Good thing trash pick-up is tomorrow.
He continues his search. An old stethoscope joins the box on the floor. He doesn't know why he kept that this long. He remembers wanting to donate it but not knowing where. There's his favorite pair of running shoes - threadbare, soles run thin, holes in the toes. He really made the most of those. He drops them in the box as well.
"What are you doing there?" he suddenly hears from behind him, just as he discovers a baseball cap from a charity run. He didn't even hear the door open.
He turns and finds Jack standing by the door, leaning against the frame. He's dressed more sensibly: in a hoodie, and his foot is in a slipper.
"Looking for something." He throws the baseball cap in with the other stuff and takes a step back to get a broader view of the shelf. That doesn't help his memory much, but he discovers another box labeled with just his name on a piece of badly ripped-off masking tape. He pulls it to the edge of the shelf.
"At two in the morning?" Jack asks.
Frank swallows and lets go. He holds onto the shelf and digs his chin into his shoulder, turning just enough to make this a conversation. "Did I wake you?"
"That's not why I'm here."
Frank wants to joke that he doesn't know why he's here either, but it sticks in his throat. "I'm sorry."
He feels goosebumps along his arm at that; it's become an automatic response. He's always sorry, all the time, for everything. Just like he's always tense and sad. He is so tired of being tense and sad and sorry.
"Come on. What are you doing?" Jack's voice is soft and careful.
Frank can hear shuffling, the crutches shift and clack against each other, Jack is about to come over. This is ridiculous. Frank doesn't need him to come here. "I don't know."
"Alright," Jack replies. Frank would expect a reprimand. You don't know what you're doing in the garage, at two in the morning? Like he makes things difficult on purpose. The accusation never comes because this is Jack and he's not like that. That's just what Frank would say to himself.
"I was looking for something," he explains. "I just don't remember what."
"Want to come back inside, see if it comes back to you?"
Not really.
"Is this about what Robby said?" Jack asks.
Not really.
"No." He slides a hand along the shelf. "I won't be much longer."
He looks over his shoulder, but Jack is still standing there, waiting, crossing his arms and looking at Frank, like he's measuring him, weighing him. "You know, he texted me. He said that it got really busy and you went home?"
He did. He went home. He returns to his search and peeks into the box labeled 'FRANK.' It's mainly DVDs - those can certainly go, because he doesn't own a DVD player anymore. "Half shift, yeah. Had an appointment." Robby knew that it was only a half shift.
"No, no, that's not... He remembered. It was that he was worried, because you two got interrupted. You had an argument and then it was all hands on deck when you left?" Jack looks at him like he's checking if Frank remembers it that way as well. Like he's making sure that's what happened for Frank, too.
"We didn't have an argument." He pulls at the box. "We said everything we had to say, I think."
"Frank, why are you clearing out your stuff?"
Frank huffs. "That's not what I'm doing. I'm just here looking for…" His trolley. He's looking for his fucking suitcase. Which is right there, on the bottom shelf, in a plastic bag, so none of the garage spiders make a home in it.
Thing is, he doesn't want to go anywhere. Maybe that's why he forgot what he was looking for. How sad is that; delaying the inevitable never works.
Jack is suddenly right behind him, shifting one crutch to his other hand, putting an arm around him, cursing quietly. His hand feels hot on Frank's skin. The walking aid is banging against the box at their feet. "Come back to bed. Whatever is happening here will wait until tomorrow."
No, it can't, because the trash gets picked up tomorrow.
He opens his mouth to say so, but Jack ducks his head into his shoulder, kisses it through the T-shirt. "Whatever he said to scare you so badly, he can clear up in the morning. Nothing is happening until then."
Frank takes a breath. Another. His heartbeat is too fast, his mouth is dry. "He said this isn't working. Anymore. This isn't working anymore."
"Then he needs to explain himself and define what 'this' is and clear up what he meant, before you start packing. After we go to bed and sleep some more."
Frank knows what Robby meant. There is only one thing he could have meant; the one thing Frank fears the most. It's what he's been waiting for, for months now. That this thing between them with him isn't working for Robby anymore. Them with him. The two of them and the one of him. Robby probably wants Jack to himself again. He and Robby don't know how to talk to each other alone anymore. It's unfair to use Jack as a buffer between them.
"I can't sleep. I tried." He just gets sad and tachy when he tries. The second round of heart palpitations brought him down here.
"Want to go for a run?" Jack offers.
"Now?" It's too dark to see. He's acutely aware of the headlamp by the door, but with the running blade, there's more that could go wrong. He also doesn't want to drag Jack into this. That, and if they run, Jack will ask him things and Frank might just answer.
"Frank, if not now…" Jack looks at the box at their feet. "You're already running. Might as well."
"No, thank you," he says.
"I'm sorry I can't fix this right now," Jack suddenly says. "Robby can, when he comes home. Because I'm sure whatever he said, this is not what he meant."
Frank nods. His eyes fall on his old running shoes. It would be nice to go on one last run with them. One last run before they go in the trash, before this is over. "We'll go back inside, yeah?" he lies through his teeth. "Try and sleep. Wait for Robby."
"Yeah, sounds good."
"Go ahead. I'll be there in a minute."
Jack hesitates, checks in with eye contact, searches for something he doesn't seem to find. "Alright," he finally says with a sort of heavy sigh that makes Frank's chest feel tight. Then he hops a step back, before shifting the crutches to both arms again, and going back to the door. "If you're not in bed in ten, I'll come looking for you."
Frank hums, a vague agreeing sound that makes his heart pound, and stays where he is. When Jack has gone back inside and the tell-tale dok-dok of his walking aids is out of earshot, he pulls the running shoes out of the box, puts them on the ground, and slides his bare feet in.
And because he can't not do it, he takes one of the photos out of the box and turns it over. He rummages around in the box, finds a pencil, and writes 'Going for a run. Thank you' on the back of the picture. He lays it out where Jack will see it easily if he does come back to check on him.
Then he grabs the headlamp from its hook and puts it on. He sneaks out the garage door, gingerly pulls it shut behind him, and starts running.
He goes slow, trying to remember his marathon speed, calculating on the way where he needs to go and when he needs to loop back, to make it back for seven a.m. He knows it's unrealistic. He knows he won't make it. He's not wearing socks, he hasn't eaten, he's not in training. It doesn't stop him from trying.
He feels floaty after a while - like the concrete under his feet is the only solid thing about him. Everything else is disconnected. His thoughts are a mess. What happened today that made Robby give up on him? He worked so hard to prove himself; so so hard. This isn't working anymore. Then he needs to explain himself and say what 'this' is.
The light of his headlamp gets dimmer. He loops back eventually when he can feel the skin of his feet become hot, when he realizes he's getting shaky. His back tells him he should slow the fuck down with some urgency. A clock in a shop window tells him that he's still got a long way to go until seven. He slows down to a walk when he feels a drop of something on his arm. For a moment, he thinks it's sweat and runs his hand along his skin, but that first one is followed by more. Hard, fat raindrops start coming down faster and faster. Great. He turns his lamp off and pulls the band down so it hangs around his neck.
Soon, it's raining heavily. It feels good at first; the rain is washing the sweat off. He walks further, splashing in puddles, feet utterly soaked and swimming in his shoes. But soon he's getting really fucking cold and it's then that he realizes his feet have started carrying him towards PTMC on autopilot.
The Pitt, where Robby has a little less than two hours left of his shift. In two hours, he'll be home and Jack will want to know what 'this' means and Robby will tell him that he means their relationship with Frank and how it's not working for him anymore. And then Frank will have to pack his suitcase while they're both home and awake, and that'll be a completely different mental breakdown.
But if he goes home now, Jack will catch him. He has a pretty good chance of not getting caught here at the hospital. He oscillates between options, before a third one presents itself: Maybe he should just bite the bullet and ask Robby what he meant. Because there is a tiny voice in his head that wonders if maybe this was a misunderstanding. Maybe he got it wrong. Maybe this is not the worst-case-scenario, the other shoe dropping, the end of their relationship.
Suddenly, that sounds like a great idea – being proactive, facing his fears and/or reality and/or his lonely, miserable future.
Early morning traffic is already picking up. The first commuters are coming towards him from the train station, huddled under umbrellas and wearing jackets. He gets odd looks. A man pauses in his step, like he wants to help, but Frank pushes past and continues on. He does need a stranger's pity or money for a coffee. He looks down at himself, at how soaked he is - and remembers only now that the T-shirt he is wearing is his sleep shirt and used to belong to Robby.
He continues walking, the rain shows no sign of letting up. A taxi drives by and slows down, offering, but he waves it off. A less careful car drives through a puddle right next to him, but at this point he's soaked through anyway. His jogging pants stick to his legs. Everything sticks.
When he's just a block away from the hospital, his heartbeat picks up. He doesn't have his ID on him, but at this time, the doors will either be open anyway, or he'll catch someone on the way in or on a smoke break. He walks towards the back to the ambulance bay and stops there.
This is it.
Moment of truth.
An ambulance takes off just as he arrives, and everyone's too busy to look at him. Ellis is calling out orders, another resident and two nurses follow, already checking vitals. He follows the gurney inside at a distance and greets Charlie, who's guarding the doors inside. He gets a very surprised, wide-eyed, "Langdon?"
"Yeah, well. Shift could've started drier," he replies and shrugs in a 'what can you do'-way before he hastily makes his way past the guy - towards the lockers and the showers. To a dry set of clothes and shoes that don't squeak and probably plasters for his sore feet. And then he can ask Robby what he meant. And then he can ask Jack to pick him up because he's not walking back. And then he can pack his suitcase and try and find a cheap, last-minute rental until he gets his feet back under him. And then he'll write his fucking resignation, because he can't work with two people he's in love with but who don't want him.
The locker room is too bright. His fingers shake so badly on the keypad that he has to try again.
"Frank?"
His whole body jerks so hard that he feels it along his back. Robby. Great. Fuck.
"Hey," he says without looking, and enters the right combination this time, deliberately slowly, pulling the locker open.
The door closes. "What the hell is going on?" And he's angry, too, just like last time. Just like earlier, when he pulled Frank aside in here. This isn't working anymore. Frank hates this locker room and its fucking appreciation pinboard. At least after today, he might not see it again all that often. Someone donated donuts, everyone quickly be grateful.
Rainwater is dripping all around him, pooling together under him. He wipes a hand over his face and pushes his hair back. Deep breath. "Sorry for the mess," he says and turns to face the fight.
Robby looks nervous, careful, not the thunderous anger Frank thought he heard. His eyes are more worried than angry. "Jack called and said you went on a run?"
He doesn't tell Robby that it was Jack's idea in the first place - which is also why he thinks that Jack is probably more upset that he didn't return from his run than that he went. No need to drag them both into Robby's bad graces.
"What did you mean?" he blurts out. "Earlier. When you said this isn't working anymore."
Robby flinches, his face scrunches up. "What?" Like he doesn't remember what he said, which is ridiculous because that sentence has been replaying in Frank's head all night. He needs to remember that that's what he said.
"You said I had to slow down. That I wasn't paying attention. And then the call came in and you said this isn't working anymore. And you left." He slams his locker closed. "Is being with me not working anymore? Is it something else? Is me working here not working anymore?"
He barely has time to blink before Robby is coming over with a quiet "Oh, no, baby, no," looking like he wants to wrap him up in a hug, but he stops himself. Like he always does. Because he never touches Frank here. But Frank wouldn't want a hug now anyway.
"Is being with me not working for you anymore?" he asks again - also wipes his face again, because his hair's still dripping water into his eyes. He crosses his arms. The shivering is getting worse. "Because I'm trying so fucking hard."
"Too hard," Robby blurts out, hovering, hands on his head, looking like he's afraid of Frank's reaction. "You're trying too… you're being too hard on yourself – every day you're in here. And even at home. We need to figure something out. Together." He puts both hands on his stethoscope, tugging at the ends. "Earlier was just the last straw. I meant what I said, but I'm really sorry for how I said it."
Frank takes a breath. Fuck.
Thing is, he's heard that before, that he's setting himself up for failure by trying to meet impossible standards. Perfect teacher, perfect ex-husband, perfect father, perfect partner, perfect doctor, perfect runner. Perfect at charting and at small talk and at not bothering people. Perfect at keeping calm and not saying everything that comes to his mind. Perfect at maintaining recovery. Perfect in bed. And on top of that, perfecting nutrition and working out and explaining procedures and sleeping. Perfect at overcoming who he was before rehab.
There is no love to be found in perfection, though, only disappointment.
"You're sad all the time," Robby says now. "And so quiet and tense. We've all got shit days, but you…" He sighs. "Are you even happy? Do I make you miserable?"
Frank swallows. He's making himself miserable. "You make it better," he finally says. "You and Jack." He feels like he can let go with them. They loved him even after they knew what he'd done.
"Frank…"
He doesn't want to hear any more about this now. He's ready for a hug.
"Come here," Robby says suddenly and pulls him in, wet and soaked as he is. "Your skin is ice," he laments. Robby, on the other hand, is ridiculously warm and solid and dry - and he presses a kiss to Frank's skin, right here in the semi-public, neon-soaked intimacy of the locker room. Robby shifts, his shoes squeak in the wet puddle under their feet.
Well, Frank was about to get a hot shower - and he can change into dry clothes in a bit, unlike Robby, who still has another hour to go as he is right now, with a huge wet patch on his scrubs.
Which is why he presses his fingertips into Robby's back, kneading, and says, "You're getting wet."
"I really don't care," Robby replies. His hands massage into Frank's neck and shoulders and arms, spreading warmth and love where they go. Robby rests his chin on Frank's head, his beard bristly, his jaw sharp.
When the door opens, Frank's first reaction is to jerk away, but Robby just holds him tight. "I'll be right there," he says to whoever is trying to call him. "Right there," he repeats quietly. "Okay," he says once the door is closed again. "You go take a shower, change into some dry clothes, grab some coffee. And I'll come get you after hand-off." He puts both his hands on Frank's jaw, thumbs on his cheeks and looks into his eyes. "And then we'll go home and talk and I'll apologize and…"
"But this is still working," Frank mumbles. They're not done.
"Yes," Robby says with a quiet air of exasperation. "It is very much working. And I'll do my best to make up for saying it like that."
"Because that sucked. I-" He stops himself from admitting that he had a panic attack.
Robby huffs out a laugh before he presses his lips to Frank's. "Yeah…" He doesn't say anything else. He's probably saving that for later. "But now, shower. See you in a bit."
Frank does get his hot shower then and stays under the spray a lot longer than it takes to get the rainwater off. He runs his aching, freezing toes along the tile grouts, scrunches them up and stretches them out until they stop hurting from the cold. An open blister is dyeing the water red, but that was to be expected.
When he's warm again, he puts on whatever leftover clothes he has in his locker and helps himself to some plasters, before he grabs a coffee from the kitchen and sits down in Dana's spot at the nurses' hub. Robby's work jacket is already hanging over the back of the chair, ready for later when he's done. Frank puts it on for extra warmth and tucks his nose into the collar, inhaling deeply. It smells like Robby's deodorant and a little like motorcycle, too. His shivering stops almost immediately.
Then he just sits there, cradling his cup in both hands. This is nice. He hardly ever sits on this side with nothing to do, so he never gets to examine the mementos here.
The pictures of Dana with the babies are gone, he realizes and snoops a little further. A quiet "Hah," escapes his throat when he sees one of Dana with him and Robby that hasn't been here before. He doesn't remember when this was taken.
"That's from three years ago," he suddenly hears Dana say behind him – scaring him half to death.
He almost spills his coffee on the keyboard and shouts, "Jesus!" What is it with people scaring him today? He looks at the clock on the computer. "What are you doing here already?"
"Just your luck I'm early," she says. She points at the picture. "Department Christmas party, if you don't remember."
He huffs through his nose. "That's why Robby looks like that."
Dana swats at his shoulder. "Shush. He looks happy."
Forced happy, maybe. Robby has an arm around each of them, looking tense and also a little less bulky than he does now – even his beard is somehow less. There is barely any grey in it yet. Frank can see Gloria in the background, in a pastel mint suit jacket. She always picks colors that make her look sweet. There, on the left, that could be Jack, half in the frame; Frank thinks he recognizes the plaid pattern of that shirt. His heart warms at the way Robby leans into him – he also notices the way he leans right back, tucked into Robby's side, smiling, happy, probably a little buzzed.
"Why are you wet?" Dana asks, frowning as she puts a hand on his hair, then on his forehead. "Did you get caught in the rain?"
He shrugs, feels a twinge, and throws his head back in exasperation.
She moves around him and bends down. He scoots back to give her room and watches curiously as she rummages around the big catch-call bottom drawer. She pulls out a crinkly plastic bag containing a new black knit cap with the Pittsburgh Bureau of Emergency Medical Services logo on the folded brim. She hands it to him and nods at his head. He puts it on dutifully and is rewarded with a satisfied smile. "Good," she says and takes the plastic from him to throw in the trash next to her.
"No, he's not on shift," she suddenly says to someone behind him and makes a shooing motion. Then she gestures at his cup. "You, finish your coffee. Robby's already on his way over."
He stays there, logs into his account on the computer and fixes a few typos in his charts, when he realizes Shen must have arrived - by the smell of his Dunkin coffee. Just then a hand clamps onto his covered head, fingertips like the grabber in a claw machine and Shen asks, "Langdon. You good?"
"Hey. Why is everybody checking on me?" He twists in his chair and looks up at his colleague, who nods a greeting at him.
Shen grabs a pen. "Just Robby… looking over four times in the minute I've been here." He clicks his pen rapidly and puts his coffee down. "We'll hurry with hand-off, okay?"
He turns back to Dana, to ask if Shen knows something that Robby would rather be kept quiet. If he should tell Robby to talk to Shen. But she winks at him and says, "Don't worry," which is definitely a cause for worry for him.
He doesn't want to be quite so obviously waiting, so he goes back to working on his charts. Shen and Robby come over to the hub to stand in front of the monitors then, their voices carrying over. One of the cases they discuss is a patient of his from seven hours ago that apparently responded well to the treatment he ordered just before he left.
Being here wearing jogging pants and a knit cap, a hoodie, and Robby's work jacket – out of uniform, no stethoscope, no actual job to do – feels alienating. He focuses on one of the charts that he didn't have time for earlier. The ED moves on around him, voices come and go. Perlah arrives and pats him on the back as a hello. His cup of coffee gets taken away, some wrappers that the night shift left out as well. It gets louder around the nurses' hub, shift change now really underway.
"Ready to go?" Robby asks suddenly.
Frank looks up, searching for where everybody else is. Shen is gone, so is his coffee. Dana and Perlah are off somewhere, too. He logs out of the system and nods eagerly. He gets up and wants to take the jacket off, when Robby interrupts him. "Keep it on, I'm good until we get to the car."
"Jack is picking us up?" He takes a step and is acutely reminded that not putting on socks was one of his poorer ideas.
Robby looks down at his feet, but graciously doesn't comment. "He is. We're going to the cabin. Sleep off what happened tonight. Enjoy the quiet. Work on fixing things."
He starts walking, Frank falls into step next to him. It's a one-hour drive up to the cabin. They have to go back tomorrow early in the morning to make it to their 7 a.m. shift. "You sure?"
Robby nods. "Just us for a day, no distractions."
"Together," Frank says.
Robby pulls him in by the shoulders. "Yeah, together."
Frank takes a deep breath and thinks back on the past few months when he tried and tried and was so worried that it wasn't enough. And now it turns out that Robby was just worried for him. Maybe it took a stupid misunderstanding like this to set them on a better course.