Chapter Text
Langdon was fucking miserable.
Miserable might’ve been an understatement.
He lost his job, all of his friends.
He got kicked to the curb by the one man he respected the most, the one person he needed approval from, the one person he needed to care about him.
He got called an addict, got his bag thrown at him.
He was yelled at, he was sworn at.
To make matters worse, he was out of the lorazepam that he stole from the hospital and brought home just in case he needed it.
But he wasn’t an addict. He wasn’t getting high. He just needed help with the pain.
He checked his phone, he had at least 50 unread texts from every coworker he had, all asking what happened. Guess Robby didn’t tell them why he got fired, only that he was fired. Langdon slumped on the couch, facing his phone down on the cushion next to him. He wasn’t ready to deal with them, wasn’t ready to face the truth. It was 9 pm on a Friday. He didn’t bother putting the TV on anymore, there was nothing good to watch. Normally he would still be working, still seeing patients, still exchanging insults with his friends, still yelling at med students to stop being stupid. Still saving lives. Still doing something with his instead of wasting his days at home. Not that spending time with his family was a waste, it just… is not the same as emergency medicine.
He felt pathetic.
He was pathetic.
He brought his palms to his eyes and pressed down hard enough that it hurt, but not enough to damage them. Then, he let out a sigh, unsure of what he was going to do tomorrow. His buddy from high school told him maybe he should play video games. It would be a distraction from his boring new normal, but Langdon considered himself above that sort of thing. He was the successful one, he had his life together, he didn’t play Call of Duty and scream at strangers for being stupid.
Maybe he did. He did yell at Santos a lot, didn’t he?
It wasn’t just her, the more he thought about it. It also wasn’t her either. It’s his own fault, really. There was always something, someone to blame. It was never his fault, he was Robby’s prodigy and he couldn’t do anything wrong. Especially when he was watching.
Is there anything else he could think about? God, this was depressing.
He was spiraling in self pity, feeling bad for himself and where his life ended up. It was his fault, yet somehow he still found a way to blame everyone else. He blamed Santos for snooping, he blamed Robby for making him open his locker. Tears were forming in his eyes and he wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Abby was upstairs, she didn’t want to talk, the kids were at their aunts for the night while Langdon tried to get his shit together. No one to distract himself from… well, himself.
Langdon dug his grown out fingertips into his palms until he felt blood drip from the wounds. The pain was easier to focus on, rather than try to shift his own thinking naturally. He watched as the red ran down his hand and onto his wrist, then staining the sleeve of his shirt.
He got up, finally, and walked to the bathroom. Stupid, stupid. He ran the faucet with warm water before forcing his wounded hand under it. There wasn’t a lot of blood, but it was a habit to clean everything. Plus, who knew how many germs and bacteria were stuck underneath his nails? He used his free hand to pump the soap dispenser then lathered it between his hands. It stung, of course it did. He rinsed the soap off and patted his hands dry with a clean towel. Bits of red stained the white cloth but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He kept it pressed against the wound as he looked around the bathroom for some gauze. It was an awkward location so a band aid wouldn’t work.
He looked for about five minutes before he found a first aid kit. It was in the cabinet below the sink. He knelt down and frowned. He had to take off the child lock Abby insisted on getting. He set it down on the floor as he rummaged around. There was a large white box that was propped up against the side. He took it out, looking at the red cross in the center. He went to undo the lock, but stopped himself. It was a stupid surface wound. He didn’t need gauze, he didn’t need to wrap it. It would scab over and be annoying to work around, but it didn’t need that much medical attention. He didn’t need to play doctor with himself. He put the first aid kit back where he found it.
He sat down on the bathroom tile and let his head bang against the wall. He was exhausted and annoyed with himself. Half of him wanted to take a razor and slice himself open just so he has an excuse to stitch himself back up again. He wanted to fix things again, that’s all he’s known his entire life. Abby won’t let him take her temperature, or even recommend over-the-counter pain killers. He was a doctor and she wouldn’t let him help.
At first, it was cute. She would tell him to “leave work at the door”. He would smile and kiss her lips, tell her he was glad to be home. Then, when they had their first kid, she would tell him he wasn’t doctor dad, just dad. He tried to not worry at every noise, every movement that wasn’t normal. She would laugh and tell him he was overthinking, that if something was actually wrong, they would go to their doctor. With their second kid, it got easier. He still tried to diagnose, but not as much.
He wasn’t sure when his care stopped being accepted.
Abby didn’t look at him the same. She didn’t even know why he got fired, but when he told her, she just looked at him sadly. But her eyes gave away that she thought this would happen eventually. He bit his lip as he felt a tear slip down his cheek. He wanted to say he didn’t cry a lot, but he did. He would cry at night when no one could see him. Like now. He closed his eyes and softly shut the bathroom door, just in case Abby decided to come downstairs. He didn’t need her seeing him like this.
He brought his knees to his chest and buried his face in them. His hands were gripping the towel like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. He let himself silently cry, breathing steadily through his nose. His pants became wet as his tears soaked into them. His heart rate was fast, he would guess 116 but he didn’t have anything that would help him find that out for sure. He was experiencing anxiety, which explains the high heart rate, the sweaty hands, the crying, the pain in his stomach, the shaking. If it got worse, it would be an anxiety attack. The curse for that would be deep breathing, maybe music to help ground himself. Easy.
He lifted his head up and sniffled, there was snot running down his face and it was a horrible feeling. He wiped his face on his sleeve and cringed. The fabric was rough and uncomfortable against the raw skin. He was always like this. Couldn’t stand certain textures. Didn’t know what it was, or why he got like that, but it was manageable for the most part. At the very least, he was very good at pretending like nothing was going on.
He wiped his eyes and cheeks with his other sleeve, trying to avoid getting his face more messy. He tensed up as he dragged the awful fabric down his cheeks roughly, practically scrubbing at the skin until it felt dry. His face was red, not from the crying, not because of how upset he was, but because he was too miserable to be nice to himself. He swallowed down another wave of sobs and took a deep breath. He just had to get his body to agree with him that it was time to stop freaking out.
In the cabinet, there were a couple different pill bottles. He knew better, he knew how horrible it would be. He got fired because he couldn’t help himself and here he was, falling right back into the same pattern. He tried to remember the excuse he told Robby; back pain, was it? Stupid excuse. He could’ve done better and he was so certain Robby saw right through his stupid lie.
He told himself that if he took something, it was to stop his anxiety. His hands were trembling as he picked up the first pill bottle. It was Tylenol. The bottle was pretty full, the pills rattling around as he turned it around. He read the information on it, despite having all of it memorized. He didn’t realize he was crying again until a tear splashed against the label. He placed the bottle back and grabbed another. Ibuprofen. He repeated what he did and read the back before putting it back. There was a shorter bottle filled with pink pills. Benadryl. His breath caught in his throat as he set it aside. That got you high if you took enough of it, it’s definitely an option. He let out the breath he was holding as a bit of relief flooded his system. He wouldn’t feel as terrible soon. He kept going through the pill bottles, out of curiosity and hope that they had something better. So far, he’s only gotten shitty pain killers and supplements.
He was crying harder now. He wanted something more, something that would make him calm, something that would work now. He didn’t want to take Benadryl; he wasn’t some stupid junkie that took pink pills and woke up in places he didn’t remember going. He was better than that, he had to be better than that. He wasn’t a junkie. He wasn’t useless. He was a doctor who just needed something to get through the pain. He hiccupped as he knocked over a few of the pill bottles as he tried to set back the bottle of Excedrin he examined. Near the back, there was an orange pill bottle. Prescription. He reached back and snatched it, bringing it out into the light. He read the label carefully, slowly.
Oxycodone.
Oxycodone.
Ox-i-ko-done.
His wife was given this after her c-section for the pain. She didn’t take many, just one or two when she would collapse from the pain. He remembered warning her how addictive they were and how hard it would be to kick it. He remembered treating patients with opioid addictions. He remembered watching overdose victims be slowly brought in, like the EMTs didn’t even care if the patient was alive or dead by the time they were seen. He remembered the looks nurses and doctors would give addicts, like they didn’t deserve the help they were getting. He remembered the girl with sickle cell who the EMTs almost restrained and was threatening to call the cops on her because they thought she was an addict. He remembered the look on Robby’s face when he found out he was taking benzos, the disgust in his voice when he spoke down to Langdon.
Langdon was sobbing now, his body shaking as he tried to regulate himself. The bloodied towel had fallen to the floor as he held the oxycodone bottle in his hands. He tried to focus on the sounds of the pills, anything but his own thoughts. He was so, so sick of his own thoughts, of the tightness and pain in his chest. He was sick of existing like this, like he was going through some kind of breakdown. He felt stupid and hysterical. He was acting stupid, he knew finding something to take is stupid.
He heard Robby’s voice telling him about overdoses as he unscrewed the top, pressing down on the lid and twisting until he heard the pop. He let it clatter to the floor. He didn’t bother checking the dosage, one pill would be enough since he didn’t have any real symptoms that would require oxycodone. He wasn’t going to take more than one pill, he didn’t need to know how much he was taking. This was a one time thing, it was a temporary solution for a temporary problem. He tilted the bottle slowly, hands still shaking. A handful of pills spilled out onto his palms. He set the bottle down and picked one out, setting it on the sink counter above his head. He poured the rest back into the bottle and screwed it tightly.
As carefully as he could, he put everything back. He started with the oxycodone, setting it in the back where he found it. He put the rest of the bottles back in whatever order, it’s not like Abby would notice. She didn’t care about that. He grabbed the child lock and secured it around the knobs, sliding it until he heard the click. He pulled at the doors just to make sure it was on right. He would hate it if his own stupidity, his own habit got one of his kids killed because he was too dumb to put a lock on the right way.
He stood up, ignoring how his knees popped as he straightened out. His eyes immediately shifted to the pill laying on the porcelain. This was his last chance. He could stop now, before he crossed a line, before he truly disappointed everyone. He heard Robby’s voice again as he picked the pill up and popped it in his mouth.
‘You let me down. You let everybody down.’
I’m so, so, so sorry, Robby.
He screwed his eyes shut before swallowing. He hated swallowing pills dry, but he got used to it after the first 10 times he did it at the hospital. Grabbing water first meant wasting time that he could be using to grab another patient. He had to keep himself busy. If he wasn’t busy, he was thinking, and if he was thinking, he was spiraling. He gripped the edge of the sink as he bent at the hip, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He knew the effects wouldn’t be immediate, no matter how much he wished they were. He shook his head as he straightened back out. His throat was dry, he realized. He ran the faucet and took a sip before leaving the bathroom, shutting the lights off as he left.
He stumbled towards the stairs, assuming it was from staying in one position for so long rather than the pills he just took. It took him too much effort to drag his body up them and into the guest bedroom. Abby stopped wanting to share a bed with him about a year ago, so he took the guest bedroom. He forced himself to close the door behind him. His head started to feel a bit fuzzy around the edges, like he wasn’t quite there mentally. He took his opportunity to change out of his jeans and sweater, putting on fresh boxers and a soft, white t-shirt. Something that didn’t make him want to claw his skin off at the texture. He nearly tripped as he kicked his old clothes to the sides and laughed at himself. He felt great, floaty, like he was coasting through life. It hadn’t even been 15 minutes yet and if he felt this great already, he seriously couldn’t wait until they took full effect.
Langdon laid down, curling up on his side. He might’ve been high but he knew to always sleep in the recovery position if there’s something in your system. He vaguely remembered that vomiting could occur with oxycodone, so he hoped he’d stay in this position when he fell asleep. But really, if he choked on his own vomit, he would probably be doing the world a favor in the end anyway.
He was giddy as he stretched out on his bed, no longer feeling heavy and tired. He made a happy noise as he rolled onto his other side, a giggle working its way out of his throat as he pulled his blankets over his shoulders. He got as comfortable as he could and closed his eyes. For once, he was happy as he drifted off to sleep.
For the first time since high school, Langdon went to sleep without any issues. He didn’t have any nightmares, no dreams of his wife and kids developing some incurable disease, no waking up in the middle of the night, just… a good night's sleep.
Langdon wasn’t sure if he could deal with going back to his normal after that.