Chapter Text
Frank was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his scrub top stiff with blood where the paper-thin, flimsy cover had soaked right through. He hadn’t gotten around to changing out of it yet. He knew he wouldn’t be wearing scrubs for a while after today. Might as well savor it.
Fifteen hours. The first eleven were just ordinary, and then his world cracked. An hour spent circling the block, calling Robby again and again, each unanswered ring tightening the noose around his throat. And then another three of tearing through the ED, patching up one mangled body after another. It had all blurred together after the first few gunshot victims started rolling in, after names stopped mattering, and all that was left was: MCI-13, gunshot wound to the chest, red band. MCI--25, gunshot wound to the leg, yellow band. MCI-54, trampling victim - straight to the morgue, do not pass go, do not collect 200$. An endless stream of intubations, infusions, chest tubes, that was until they ran out of chest tubes. It took less than an hour, and that’s when all the McGayver shit had started. On any other day, he might even enjoy this. Not today, though.
Somehow, they’d saved a lot of them. Not as many as he wanted, but more than he expected. He supposed that should count for something, but it didn’t. Not really.
His hands were shaking.
And his brain? It refused to shut the hell up. There was nothing left to distract him now. No scalpel to hold, no vitals to check, no orders to bark out. Just him and the thoughts clawing at his skull. What the hell was he supposed to do now? What was he supposed to tell Abby? How had he screwed this up so badly? Would Robby ever look at him the same way again? Would he even have his license after this?
Because yeah, he’d screwed up. Big time. Robby had enough shit to deal with today, and Frank had just thrown another load onto his pile of misery. The last thing Frank wanted was for their final interaction - if this was the final one - to be that fight in the locker room. If Robby wouldn’t let him explain, Frank would have to show him. Show that he still had it, that he still belonged in the ED. Once, Robby had believed in him when no one else would. Frank wasn’t about to let him forget why.
He wasn’t quite sure if he succeeded.
And Mel. Jesus, Mel. How was she going to take this?
All pressing questions. But not the most pressing. No, the real question was the one gnawing at him, the one that wouldn’t budge no matter how hard he tried to shove it aside.
What the hell was Garcia doing here?
He hadn’t even noticed when she showed up beside him. Not surprising, really - he was a bit out of it, his brain barely keeping up as it was, running on fumes and whatever raw nerves were still firing. It had nothing to do with the drugs, though. He hadn’t taken anything today. He never did when he was on shift.
After the chaos died down, after he made sure every last patient was stable, after he checked and double-checked that there wasn’t another crisis waiting for him around the corner, he needed air. Needed to get out.
But Robby’s voice was still rattling around in his skull:
Open your fucking locker or I’ll have security smash it open.
Have you been helping yourself to benzos from the ED?
Trust? Oh, it’s a little late for that.
And she was just standing there.
Her scrubs were just as wrecked, but she wore them better. She must be exhausted, too, but she didn’t let it show. Still composed. Still sharp. Still the same. Always the same.
The only constant in his goddamn life.
"Go home, Langdon."
Frank let out a laugh. "And say what? Hey, honey, fun update - I got caught stealing benzos from the hospital. Lost my job. How was your day?”
"It's a start."
"Oh, yeah. Great plan. I’ll make it a whole thing while I’m at it. Maybe light some candles, cook something nice, break the news over dinner. Really set the mood."
Garcia just gave him a flat look. "Right, because you cook now."
"Excuse you, I make amazing grilled cheese."
"You burn grilled cheese."
"It’s called caramelization."
“It’s called a goddamn fire hazard. I'm surprised your wife even lets you near the stove.”
He scoffed. “Like you’re some kind of gourmet chef?”
“I don’t pretend to be.”
His jaw tightened. It was stupid. This shouldn’t be the conversation they were supposed to be having right now. You don’t talk about burning dinner after a day like this.
“Can you give me a fucking break, just today?”
She tilted her head. “Not when you’re giving me so much material. It’s too easy with you.”
“Yeah, well, maybe this is not the best moment for your stand-up routine.”
She let out a short, sharp laugh. “I just can’t help myself, you know? Especially after a little birdie told me you’ve been shoving stolen benzos down your throat.”
Ah, there. The elephant in the room.
His fingers curled into fists, but he forced himself to relax, to breathe through the sharp, cutting heat that flared up in his chest.
“Fuck you, Yoyo,” he muttered. Not the strongest comeback, but the best he could manage.
Her expression didn’t change. “You’d love to.”
It was his turn to laugh, cold and humorless. That wasn’t the kind of thing she’d throw at him when they were in the ED, surrounded by other people. But here? No holds barred.
“Yeah, well. I already have.”
Something flickered in her eyes, just for a second. Then it was gone.
He scoffed, glancing back at the hospital. It had been, what? A few hours? Barely. And already, everyone knew. Gossip spread like wildfire in this place. Garcia could talk all the shit she wanted, but it wouldn’t change anything. Wouldn’t distract him.
"They’ll forget in a month," Garcia said, as if reading his mind. Hell, maybe she could. Once upon a time, he was sure she could.
She said it like it was a fact, and maybe it was. Maybe by next month, someone else would fuck up even worse, and this whole thing would be old news. But Frank doubted it. He just provided them with material for months to come. There was no going back to normal after that.
He glanced at her, desperate to change the topic. "And you? What are you gonna do?"
"Me? I’ll get a drink."
That’s not what he was asking, but okay, fine, he’d bite.
"With Santos?"
He didn’t mean to ask it like that. Bitter. Accusatory. Not his finest moment, but he just couldn’t help himself. There was a time to be the bigger person, and then there was today.
“Please, as if you don’t have favorites.”
He raised a brow. “I don’t fuck them, for one. What do you even see in her?”
“She’s good.”
“She thinks she’s good. There’s a difference.”
Come to think about it, maybe that was what did it for Garcia. Good looks and uncontainable hubris. A dangerous combination, if he’d ever seen one.
“She might make a great surgeon one day.”
“Well, too bad she matched EM and is legally bound to stay for the next four years.”
“You should know better than anyone that there are ways to wiggle yourself out of that.”
His jaw tightened. “That was different.”
“Was it?”
He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I had a reason.”
“She will find one, too,” Garcia said. “And everything else, she’ll learn. That’s why it’s a five-year program.”
“Yeah. And some of them still come out of it as idiots.”
“Like you?”
He chuckled. “I see you still have a type. Some things never change, Yoyo.”
And that, he definitely didn’t mean to say. But there it was. He was too tired to hold himself in check. Most people said he never did, but that wasn’t true. He did have a filter, he just kept it wide open. Some people appreciated it. Most didn’t.
And now, at rock bottom, he figured, hell, if he was going down, might as well go all the way.
Garcia didn’t react. Not outwardly, anyway. But Frank knew her too well. There was the tiniest flicker of something in her eyes. Annoyance? Amusement? Maybe both. She turned her head, exhaling through her nose, and for a second, he thought she might let it slide.
She didn’t.
“You always did have a way of making everything about you,” she said, tone dry.
He let out a sharp laugh. “Yeah? And here I thought this was about me. You know, me getting fired, me potentially losing my license, me ruining my entire goddamn career.”
“Right. And somehow, still, you find time to be jealous.”
Frank scoffed. “Jealous? Of Santos? Are you for real?”
Garcia gave him a slow, measured look.
“Please,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Let me say it once and for all, in case you forgot: I don’t care who you sleep with. He tilted his head, voice dripping with mock sincerity. “I’m just saying you can do way better than her.”
“Just admit it, she reminds you of yourself. That’s why you hate her so much.”
There was a ghost of a smirk on her lips.
Infuriating.
“I was never that smug.”
Garcia let out a short laugh. “No, you were way worse.”
Frank clenched his jaw. “At least I had the talent to back it up.”
Garcia didn’t even blink. “And look where that got you.”
The words hit harder than he wanted them to. He knew she meant them to. And worst of all, she wasn’t wrong.
“You know, for someone who claims not to give a shit, you sure have a lot to say.”
Garcia tilted her head. “And for someone who’s so goddamn smart, you sure make a lot of dumb decisions.”
Frank scoffed, but the sound came out weaker than he wanted. “Yeah? Like what?”
She gave him a look. “Do you want a list? Because stealing benzos was only a highlight.”
Frank shifted, rolling his shoulders, but the tremor in his hands wouldn’t quit. The adrenaline crash was creeping in - too much time on his feet, not enough food, too much everything, even for him. He curled his fingers into a loose fist, willing it away.
Garcia noticed. She always noticed.
This time, she didn’t say anything. Didn’t rub salt in the wound like she might have on any other day. Instead, she reached into her pocket, pulled something out, and pressed it into his palm.
Frank looked down. A granola bar.
He stared at it for a second, then back at her.
"Seriously?"
"Eat," she said simply. ”Put that mouth to good use just once in your life.”
He let out a short, dry laugh, but unwrapped it anyway. It tasted like cardboard - stale, dry, vaguely vanilla-flavored, but he chewed through it. Because she was right, and because arguing any longer would take more energy than he had left.
For a while, they just stood there, quiet.
Then, finally, he spoke, voice lower this time. “You think he’ll forget?”
“Robby? He’ll move on,” she said. “Eventually.”
Not the same thing, and they both knew it.
Frank swallowed hard. His throat was dry.
“I wasn’t- ” He stopped himself, exhaled sharply, tried again. “I didn’t take them for fun, you know.”
“I know.”
Frank leaned back against the wall, staring up at the sky. The colors were starting to shift, deep blues swallowing the last streaks of orange. A couple of stars, barely visible through the city haze.
After a long moment, he spoke again.
"Do you ever look back? Think about how things might’ve turned out?"
Garcia didn’t answer right away. She just looked out at the sky, the soft hues of evening bleeding into the horizon.
"Do you?" she asked.
Did he?
Maybe once. Back when things still felt salvageable, when he thought he had it all figured out. Back when he believed there was some kind of cosmic balance to it all, that if you worked hard enough, cared enough, gave enough of yourself, then things would even out .
He wasn’t that stupid anymore.
“Used to,” he admitted. “Not much point now.”
Garcia turned her head slightly, giving him that look. The one that meant she saw right through his bullshit. “You could own it, you know.”
“Own what?”
“This.” She gestured vaguely at him. “The mess you made. Stop acting like it just happened to you.”
“Oh, fuck off, Yoyo,” he muttered, rubbing at his eyes. “I get it. I fucked up. I made my bed, and now I get to lie in it. You don’t have to keep reminding me.”
Garcia shrugged. “I do. Since you seem dead set on lying in it and rotting.”
“While you just get to stand there and judge me, like you weren’t right there with me, looking the other way?”
Garcia’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “I didn’t look the other way.”
“No?” He turned to face her fully now, something bitter curling in his chest. “What would you call it, then? Because last I checked, you knew. You always knew.”
Garcia exhaled through her nose, slow and measured. “Yeah,” she admitted. “I did.”
That was it. No excuses. No justifications. Just the truth, bare and matter-of-fact.
Frank stared at her for a moment, then shook his head. “At least I don’t have to rot in there with you.”
Garcia didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just stood there, watching him with that same sharp, unreadable expression.
Then, finally, she pushed off the wall.
“I gotta go,” she said.
Frank let out a slow exhale. “Right. Santos is waiting.”
Garcia didn’t confirm or deny it. Didn’t need to. She hesitated for half a second, just long enough that he almost thought she might say something else, but then she just shook her head, muttering something under her breath as she turned away.
Frank didn’t ask what it was.
Didn’t watch her leave, either.
Just stared down at his hands, still fucking shaking.
And laughed.