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Santos was still so fucking irritating.
Gallivanting around the ED like she owned the place, still making executive decisions while he wasn’t present. He was her superior, even as a repeating senior resident—that wasn’t hard to comprehend, or at least Langdon suspected it wouldn’t be for anyone smarter. Or anyone less egotistical, he corrected himself.
He passed Dana as he stormed through the hospital, brows furrowed so tightly that he felt his pulse in his temples.
“Woah, what's your issue, kid?”
But he wasn’t listening. He stomped onward, his violent gaze set on one man only. As he reached him—Dennis Whitaker, that was—he grabbed him by his collar, pulling him from his previous position where he was watching the charts to see what patient he’d be taking next, and dragging him along. This was much to Dennis’s dismay, he knew. Dennis had told him before how embarrassed it made him when other people saw Langdon pulling him by the tuft of his neck fur like an overbearing mother kitten, or better yet, like a disobedient dog on a leash. Langdon had a sneaking suspicion, however, that this was only to encourage his behavior. Dennis never said to stop, even after what felt like a million of these occurrences, and they often ended with Whitaker red in the face and in desperate need of a new set of scrubs. He was very lucky, as Frank often reminded him, that scrub changes were already a common occurrence for him.
Peeking around the corners of the winding hallway he’d forced Whitaker into, he flung open the doorway to their usual supply closet, maneuvering both of them inside snugly.
“Who pissed you off this time?” Whitaker asked teasingly, but Langdon wasn’t in the mood. He never was.
“Who do you think?” he growled, gesturing vaguely towards the outside of the closet.
“She’s my roommate, y’know,” Dennis attempted to defend her. “And everything went down so long ago. She feels really bad,” he elaborated. “Promise.”
Although this did make the normal side of Langdon feel better—he felt bad, too, for all the times he’d shouted and pushed her away—the primal side of him that was currently overtaking his mind and body didn’t care much.
This animalistic version of himself hadn’t existed prior to his unfortunate removal from the hospital. He was a caregiver, a mentor, a lover, at heart. He was used to being in a position where he was teaching or soothing, and he enjoyed it. He loved his kids, his co-workers, and his friends. He loved feeding and walking the dog that was now his responsibility and buying gifts for his son and daughter. He’d loved building them a treehouse in the backyard of their mom’s house over the past couple of months, spending time with them in a way he never could before rehab. But when he came to work, it was like the sight of Santos alone provoked him. It wasn’t just her anymore, either. Garcia used to be his closest confidant at the hospital, other than Robby, and now she seemed to never be away from Santos. And Robby was still prickly, too. The whole world had flipped upside down, but he was winning it back day by day. He was a good man—he fought for his patients and he joked with Robby and Dana. He spoke kindly to Santos and explained to her in gentle terms why he was sometimes aggravated with her. But all of that hospitality ate away at him… like he wasn’t allowed to free the anger he often felt.
And so when he’d set his sights on Whitaker, who was fidgety and in desperate need of an overseer, he had, in many ways, taken advantage of his trust. But Whitaker hadn’t minded. At the very least, he hadn’t protested. He certainly hadn’t hidden any of the marks—hits, scratches, or bites— that Frank had inflicted upon him.
Finally pulling himself together, though only by a thread, he responded. “I don’t really care how sorry she is. Until she stops fucking doing things without my okay, I don’t care.”
“But—“ Whitaker began. Seeing the intense look on Langdon’s face, he stopped in an instant. “Sorry, doctor. Sorry.”
“Useless,” Langdon murmured. “You just don’t quit.”
“I don’t mean to,” Dennis hurried to say.
“Fuck’s sake,” Frank hissed. Before he knew it, he was winding back his palm, landing it firmly and thickly on Whitaker’s pale cheek, as he had many times before. Whitaker gasped.and hissed, landing his head against the door with a thunk.
The red mark on his cheek glittered lusciously beneath the dim overhead lighting of the supply closet. Langdon reveled in it, brushing a rough thumb over his counterpart’s affliction. Dennis flinched away from the prodding hand and seethed, likely at the sting that the slap had left behind. But Frank, not ready to let him escape anytime soon, pulled his face back, his large palm engulfing Whitaker’s jaw and snapping it forwards. They locked eyes, and Whitaker had the gall to look frightened. Like they hadn’t done this plenty of times before, danced this very dance. Langdon released a deep rumbling sound from within his throat and planted another harsh smack on Whitaker, this one with only slightly less force.
“I bet you let all the guys in this hospital treat you like this,” he whispered, a hint of playful aggression lingering in his tone. “But you let me think I’m special, huh?”
A single strand of hair fell into his line of vision and he took note of how the man’s eyes followed it, from his hairline where it had slipped from to his usually relaxed blue eyes which were now bordering on blazing and were surely singing Whitaker’s skin with the pure fury they held. Langdon felt like a man possessed. Yes, they’d followed this unusual routine for the better chunk of Langdon’s time back in the ED, but today something was different. Like perhaps a sudden desire had sprung to life beneath all of the animosity he was disguising it under.
“I-I don’t know what you mean, Langdon,” Whitaker forced out. He was shaking ever-so-slightly—Frank could feel it under the ridges of his fingerprints. Yet his hands lingering on Frank’s hips, slipping underneath his scrubs and revealing his stomach sung a different song.
“Doctor,” Dennis clarified, grip tightening. “Doctor Langdon.”
Langdon purred in response to Whitaker’s touch, his tall stature allowing him to lean over Dennis and rest his head against the door above Dennis’s own. Much of his previous vexation had slipped from him in a second’s time, Whitaker’s fumbling yet satisfactory hands pulling it from his chest cavity. His chest was close to Whitaker’s face and he allowed for him to travel his hands up his abdomen and land them on his pecs. His spine curved in as a thumb grazed his nipple and he grasped a handful of Whitaker’s hair, tugging it.
“Fuck, we shouldn’t be doing this on shift,” Langdon complained.
“You say that everytime,” Whitaker replied, and he sounded rather happy. Langdon almost granted himself permission to dwell on his content tone, but he thought better of it. Instead, he lowered his head and smashed his lips into Whitaker’s, searching his hot mouth with an eager tongue. Whitaker’s hands faltered against Langdon’s taut skin, but quickly resumed pinching his nipples and groping his chest and backside. Whitaker was always rather touchy, and Langdon liked it. A lot. Even when he was rough and forceful, Dennis was needy.
Their mouths slick with each other’s spit, they parted momentarily, noses touching as Langdon made a show of lifting Whitaker off the ground. He spun them around so that his back whipped against the door and Whitaker was forced to wrap his legs around Langdon’s slim waist—the sound of the door reverberating was dangerously loud.
They reconnected, and it was like second nature.
After all, every time Langdon felt even mildly frustrated, he summoned Whitaker, putting their duties on hold and releasing all of his stress in the controlled environment he’d created between them. He’d come to look forward to it. On two particular occasions he’d dragged Dennis into the closet and kissed him dizzy, even though nothing had agitated him—he had an underlying feeling that Dennis knew, but he’d never mentioned it. He couldn’t risk this, whatever it was. It was sacred.
A strangled moan escaped Dennis’s mouth and echoed into Frank’s as Frank bit down onto his bottom lip, grinding absent-mindedly against him through their scrub bottoms.
“Frank, now this is too risky, you know I can’t be quiet,” Whitaker warned, though he did little to stop the friction contributing to their growing erections.
“We aren’t gonna do anything, Whitaker,” he brushed him off. “Didn’t you just tell me not to worry about that, anyway? Jesus, don’t be so nervous, just—just come here.”
Holding him close as they rocked against one another, he sucked an exquisite purple bruise into the hollow of Whitaker’s throat. His skin tasted like copper, and he wondered nastily if Whitaker had been sprayed with blood again today. He gripped Whitaker’s ass and hoisted him further up, his hard cock pressed against each of their legs uncomfortably.
Dennis whimpered, half in protest and half in pleasure. “Frank! Our shift started four hours ago, we’re gonna be here for the rest of the day! You’re gonna get us in trouble,” he whined, genuine fear evident in his inflection. Regardless of his objection, he dug his nails into Frank’s shoulders and bridged the small gap between them to simulate more heat and more contact.
“People have done worse here,” Frank kissed the darkening skin tenderly, grazing it with his teeth, “and besides, no one cares what you do with your free time when you’re saving lives.”
“This isn’t our free time, though! This is on the clock.”
“Shut the fuck up,” he spat, rolling his eyes with a hint of affection. “Tastes like blood. Something happened, huh?” Frank changed the subject as he licked a stripe up Whitaker’s neck.
Dennis flushed, and turned his head away. “I mean, no, not, like—I didn’t do anything wrong, it couldn’t have been avoided, really,” he slurred quickly, huffing a few breathy laughs out. Frank began slowing his indignant pace, knowing that unfortunately they’d have to return to the floor before someone came busting the door down and found them entwined and dryhumping inside a closet full of spare stethoscopes and gloves.
“Sure,” Langdon said, a chuckle escaping him. He gingerly kissed Whitaker’s lips once more and placed him back on the ground, feeling renewed, as he usually did after their meetings. “You look…wow.”
“Jeez, real nice,” Dennis joked. “I probably look like a mess.”
“If ten minutes has you looking like this, imagine what would happen outside of this closet,” Frank shot back.
Whitaker’s face darkened and he rubbed his toned bicep, staring down at the wooden floor. His smile was now close to absent. “Don’t say things like that.”
Frank frowned, unsure of what he meant. But a stunning conviction revealed itself to him at that moment, as if destined. He didn’t quite understand the entirety of it, but so it was there anyway; being with Whitaker wasn’t simply allowing him to expel his rage, it was healing him. He was kissing him and doing what most people would describe as loving on him, and worst of all, he didn’t even have the space to hold that. His heart was clogged and his brain even worse. Had his anger truly been at a peak or had he simply desired an excuse to feel Whitaker’s warm skin tremble with the weight of his palms on it? Had he wanted to hit him because he needed something to hit or because it was familiar and sparked something between them each time that Frank had felt nowhere else? The anger had dissipated so easily that he was unsure if it had existed at all.
“Well, the offer still stands,” he mumbled. He thought that maybe he saw a flash of a grin return to the other’s face, but who knew when his mind was so hazy?
Whitaker’s left hand had remained in Frank’s for the past couple of minutes, and it slipped away lazily, likely in order to leave. Langdon, in a panic, grabbed it back and pulled Whitaker in for a final show of passion. A promise, maybe. There was no telling, at least not yet. The kiss was short and as usual, tinted with sadism, but a new understanding laced it as well.
Releasing him, Frank opened the door, hiding behind it as he let Whitaker slip away. He heard the familiar one, two knocks that signaled it was okay for him to come out free of watchful eyes and slid out quietly, straightening his back and shoulders. He rolled his neck and brushed his hair back into position by raking his fingers through it. Whitaker did the same and alongside that, self-consciously rubbed at his throat.
“You’re an ass, Langdon,” he scoffed.
“Doctor,” Langdon reminded him. “You know the drill.” He winked with a mischievous smirk playing on his lips and began to walk towards the center of the ED, unsure what their future held.
But his thoughts were cut short as the last person he’d ever wanted to see at a time like that came bounding at him and Dennis, red in the face and evidently pissed. Robby.
“Where the hell have you two been?” he demanded, hand on his hips, mouth agape in disbelief. “Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes we’ve been missing two doctors, and why, exactly, is that?”
Whitaker looked as though he was scared for his life, and Langdon had to bite back a laugh. Dennis was holding his neck so closely he was practically choking himself.
“Whitaker here needed new scrubs. We’ve been waiting for them to get replaced because they were fresh out.”
“Why was that a two person job?” Robby hounded. “Whitaker knows very well where the scrub exchange is.”
“Well, Doctor Robby, some things are meant to remain mysteries,” he tried, hoping his clowning nature would get Robby to cut them loose.
Looking from Dennis to Frank, Robby huffed and threw his hands up in disbelief. “Just…just get back to work, for the love of all things good. And cover up that hickey, Whitaker.”
Frank was shocked and a bit embarrassed, but his feelings on the matter paled in comparison to the bright shade of pink Dennis was. Frank was almost hesitant to leave him there alone, frozen in place like a deer in headlights, but duty called.
And so, he blew the flustered doctor a kiss and departed.