Chapter Text
"You have no idea what you missed today. It was wild!"
Mel had just gotten home from work and was now bombarding him with medical jargon, anecdotes, and details about her patients' lives—all without even taking off her jacket. But then again, Dr. Melissa King had no time for silly things like jackets, shoes, bags, or washing her hands after coming in from outside when she had such an incredibly fascinating case—one she simply had to share in person with Dr. Frank Langdon.
And he appreciated that very much.
Having woken up from a power nap just thirty minutes ago—standing there in a rumpled T-shirt, hair askew, and still trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes—he truly appreciated that Mel had chosen him as the sole recipient of her entire monologue. He really did. Every little gesture of hers mattered to him; every word she spoke was of interest. And yet...
"Mel?"
"Yeah?"
"Hi?" Frank offered an awkward smile. "How are you doing? How was your day?"
Mel looked at him with a slightly bewildered expression, her smile still happy, though beginning to fade. It took every ounce of Frank’s self-control not to lose it and kiss her until her cheeks ached—right here, right now—for he loved her so deeply.
"You just didn't actually say hello when you walked in," he said, completely without malice—much as he might have casually remarked that she was wearing a new T-shirt. "I guess your day really was pretty interesting..."
"Yeah, very..." she chuckled awkwardly, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Hi, Frank..."
"Hi, Mel..." he smiled warmly back at her. "How was your day at the Pitt?"
And so, with evident delight, Mel began her entire story all over again—though this time, it was a little less chaotic and emotionally charged. Frank listens intently while he brews her coffee—a splash of cream, three spoons of sugar—while he warms up her pasta with salmon in the microwave, and while he sets the table. He never interrupts her, because doing so upsets Mel and might cause her to withdraw. He quietly murmurs "yeah," "mm-hmm," and "that’s really interesting," so she won’t think she’s boring him with her stories. Mel can—and will—tell him anything she pleases, right up until she gets tired of it herself; after all, it’s no trouble for him to watch Elf one hundred and sixty-four times—or however many times it takes for her to finally tire of that movie, that story, or that tale.
Mel still hasn’t figured out who she is, if not Becca’s sister.
That is precisely why Frank is having dinner with her now, listening intently as she talks about a boy with a head injury who fell off his bike, and how Mel was entrusted to stitch him up all by herself. He listens intently to how Mel managed to spot the symptoms in time to order dialysis for another patient—thereby, in effect, saving his life. He listens intently as she describes how Dr. Garcia took her along to observe a surgery today—and how, while Mel found it fascinating, she still doesn’t really want to go into surgery herself.
"Dr. Garcia is very strict, but she’s not mean. I don’t understand why people think she’s mean," Mel lifts her fork toward her pasta for the fifth time, only to get distracted by her own storytelling and forget to eat. "She’s just strict. And focused. Because she’s a surgeon, and she can’t afford to be slow, or unfocused, or—"
"Excellent diagnosis, Dr. King," Frank smiles gently at her, his eyes gesturing toward her plate. "How about you eat a hot meal—for the first time today?"
“I'd really like this...” she chuckles softly, taking her first bite. “It’s delicious—thank you.”
“Of course it’s delicious; you made it,” he offers a compliment out of habit, then immediately corrects himself when met with a look of confusion. “You’re a wonderful cook, and I just wanted to acknowledge that. Sorry—I probably just confused you.”
“Oh... Oh. Right. Yeah. Thanks...”
Mel has a wonderful laugh—soft and warm, always tinged with a hint of shyness. To this day, she still tries to take up as little space as possible—both visually and audibly. She still slouches and shrinks in on herself; she tries to stay silent or speak in hushed tones, tries not to “show off her smarts” unnecessarily. Consequently, she spends almost all her time hunched silently in a corner—until she is specifically asked a question, or until a patient’s very life hangs in the balance. Mel only truly relaxes when she is around Dr. Langdon. And flattering as Frank finds this, it pains him to the very core that one of the most talented, empathetic, and competent specialists he knows is burying her gifts—all just to avoid inconveniencing anyone with her mere existence. What makes it even worse is knowing that Robby will never acknowledge just how good she is—just as he never acknowledged Mohan’s merits—simply because they are both women, and Robby suffers from a terminal case of “mommy issues” that prevents him from accepting the fact that possessing a penis has absolutely no bearing on one’s level of professional competence.
Mel ought to be proud of the fact that she saves lives, damn it—not ashamed of herself!
That is precisely why—though personal reasons play a part, too—Dr. Langdon always asks for Dr. King’s opinion on the patients they examine together, and why he routinely turns to her for a second opinion. This isn’t pedagogy; it’s practically the same thing as asking a more experienced colleague for advice—it’s a way of saying “I respect you,” wrapped in professional packaging.
“So, how was your day?”
Mel’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts. Lost in musings about what a jerk Robby is—and what selfish people everyone at the Pitt is—Frank somehow failed to notice that Mel had already finished her meal and was reaching out to take his plate. He immediately gestures for her to sit down and take a load off, while he himself hurriedly finishes eating and places both plates in the sink.
“If you keep stuffing like that, you might get sick...” Mel looks at him with concern, but cuts herself off and withdraws into herself, studying a couple of bubbles on the surface of her coffee. “Sorry... you know all this yourself, without me pointing it out...”
Frank doesn’t know who instilled this pattern in Mel, but he knows for a fact that if he ever meets that person, he’ll unravel their DNA chain strand by strand. He squats down beside her chair and holds out his open hand, palm up—I’m here; I’m right beside you; I won’t hurt you.
“Were you afraid I’d yell at you just for trying to take care of me?” he asks gently, and Mel nods. “Were you afraid because you’ve tried to take care of someone before, only to have them yell at you?”
Sadly, Mel nods again... though this time, she takes his hand. Frank gently closes his own hand around hers, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. Yet she still frowns, her gaze fixed on her coffee, which sits cooling sadly in its cup.
“You yelled at me yourself... and you don’t even remember...”
He loved Mel to the point of adoration. The sanctuary of her soul, her inner peace—these were more precious to him than anything else in the world. Back in Pitt, he had fiercely defended her reputation as a doctor—more fiercely, even, than Robby or Mel herself. To avenge her wounded feelings, he would have torn her tormentor apart with his bare hands. And now, that tormentor turned out to be him. Frank Langdon nods guiltily, releases her hand, and stands up to wash the dishes amidst the heavy silence of the kitchen.
“I didn’t mean to ruin the evening...”
“Mel, you didn’t ruin anything,” Frank forces out, as gently as he can manage. “You shouldn’t have to worry about my feelings after pointing out that I hurt yours. You’re right; you didn’t deserve to have a hysterical outburst thrown back at you in return for your concern.”
Mel nervously adjusts her glasses and sniffs. Her eyes begin to sting uncomfortably; she picks up her mug and hurriedly rises from her seat.
“Thanks, that was delicious. I’m going to watch some TV in the living room before bed,” she rattles off in a rush, then shoots out of the dining room like a bullet.
Frank sighs and leans his hands against the rim of the sink, hunching over. He wants to hit something, smash something—to break something, to find some way to vent his rage—but instead, he simply breathes slowly in a square pattern, staring at the water and counting from one to ten and back again. His therapist had said something about needing to accept the stop-and-start nature of recovery—the triggers, the flashbacks, the bouts of aggression—but no one had mentioned...
They had.
That was exactly what they had told Frank.
They had told him in no uncertain terms: “Frank, you will lash out at the person closest to you, because you are sick.” But he is Mr. Self-Control, Mr. Self-Isolation; surely, with just a sheer act of will, he could simply—choose not to lash out. Stupid rabbit.
He’s finally hopped himself into a corner.