Chapter Text
Frank Langdon arrived at a discrete (enough) rehab center in fucking Youngstown, Ohio on a dreary September day. It had been 28 hours since he last took a pill (chlordiazepoxide, his brain unhelpfully supplies). He knows he’s in the general withdrawal period (lasting 1-4 days after his last dose). His hour-long drive took over two with all the times he pulled over to puke his guts out on the side of I-76 West.
His first few days in rehab are straight out of every textbook he’s ever read: nausea, vomiting, tremors, headaches, heart palpitations, anxiety, sweating. He feels fucking pathetic. Staring at the beige, paneled ceiling of his shared dorm room; another doctor on the other side of the room, shivering and shaking through his own withdrawal. The next week and a half are a blur. He yells at anyone who looks at him. He can still barely keep down water sometimes. He is so angry at Robby, at Abby, even at his fucking dog. Nobody escapes the wrath of a man with nothing more to live for.
Thirty days later, he stands on the curb, squinting in the sunlight and trying to remember where he parked his car, with a long list of NA meetings in Pittsburgh, and another list of therapists catered to his “situation”. As if any of them could ever fucking get it.
Sixty days later, he is staring at the white popcorn ceiling of the cheapest apartment he could find on short notice. Abby kicked him out. Took Tanner, Penny, and that fucking dog with her. She said she couldn’t trust him around the kids yet. As if he hadn’t done his thirty days, gritted teeth, and pained confessions. He thinks about where he would be if nobody ever found out. Probably elbow deep in whatever trauma was coming through the front doors, paramedics yelling vitals, His hands on his back, an easy sense of chaos in the back of his mind.
One hundred and eighty days later (and yes, he has been keeping count), he is about ready to scratch his own skin off. Outpatient, NA meetings, visits with his therapist. He needs to get back to work. Has he not repented enough for his sins? Is there still penance left for his soul? (he knows there is, he has not seen Him yet and he dreads the day). His cravings have mostly subsided. He has started writing his apologies and amends. He is working the program. He knows he IS an addict (not was an addict).
Two hundred and seventy days later, the guilt hits. Medically, he knows his body is still physically and mentally withdrawing. He feels it in every night he spends not sleeping. Counting the seconds that tick by on his mechanical clock. His hands still shake in the mornings, when he would normally take his first dose of the day. He hasn’t opened his blinds in days. His TV drones on in the background at all hours of the day. It’s too quiet otherwise. He misses his kids. He misses them so much. He misses his job. Misses the constant stream of stimulation, the challenges, the routine. His therapist thinks he needs to get a hobby. He explains that his whole life is medicine. That was his golden ticket out. In high school, he would ride his bike three miles across town from the shitty trailer park he grew up in to sneak into App State lectures and absorb as much information he possibly could before he got caught. He was the first person in his family to finish high school and the first to turn 18 without catching a charge. He drove his shitty car packed with everything he owned all the way to Chapel Hill and never once looked back. Without his job, without his career, without his success, he’s just another addict from Boone, North Carolina with nothing but debt to his name.
Two hundred and eighty-five days later, he thinks he turns a corner. He goes for a walk in the morning. Sits on a bench in a nearby park. It’s a nice summer day out, sunny with a pleasant breeze. It’s comforting to hear the sounds of kids playing. If he closes his eyes, maybe he can imagine it’s his own kids playing dinosaurs while he watches with a fond smile.
He sits there for an hour. When he’s finally ready to leave, he catches a glimpse of familiar looking bangs. He puts his head down and wishes he had brought a hat to cover his face. He speeds up walking, hoping to get away unnoticed.
“Langdon? Hey!” a voice stops him. He’s never been lucky. He turns and offers a polite smile,
“Hi McKay, how are you?”
“How am I? How the fuck are you? Nobody’s heard from you in like months.”
He resists the urge to correct her that’s been two hundred and eighty-five days and a couple hours. Something must show in his face, before he gets a chance to respond, McKay cuts him off,
“Sorry, I came on a little aggressive,” she offers, chuckling, “I know how stressful early recovery is. Let’s sit for a while, I have to catch you up on all the gossip before you come back.”
Reluctantly, he’s led by McKay’s arm on his bicep back to the bench he came from.
It’s another 45 minutes before he works up the courage to ask about Him. He waits for McKay to finish her story about Whitaker still finding a way to get covered to every bodily fluid he can think of.
“And how’s, uh, Robby doing? You haven’t said much about him”, Langdon says, aiming for nonchalant and probably missing by a mile.
Cassie (as she’s insisted he call her, claiming that she’s here to get away from work, and being called her surname makes her feel like she’s still at work) offers Frank a tired smile.
“He’s been different. Since you left. Are you sure you want to talk about him right now?” Cassie says as gently as she can, like she’s telling Harrison it’ll be okay after he scrapes his knee. Frank sits with that for a minute. Cassie doesn’t even know the half of it.
“No, I’m not sure I am,” he whispers, hoping she can somehow read his mind.
She puts her hand on his shoulder, and they sit in silence for a couple minutes. Watching Harrison play. Frank can feel the anxiety swelling up in his stomach, in his heart. Cassie must feel it too (God bless her), and bursts out with,
“Wait, I forgot to tell you, Princess broke off apparently her second engagement back in April and the guy came into the waiting room begging for her to take him back.”
“Wait, her fucking second engagement? When was she even engaged the first time?”
They sit there for another thirty minutes. It’s the most normal Frank has felt in a long time. Cassie leaves him with her phone number, saying that she remembers how alone she felt in the beginning of recovery and a promise to pick up his call any time of day or night. He leaves her with a hug, tears in his eyes, and a whispered thanks for everything.
He smiles his entire walk home, a spring in his step he hasn’t felt in months. He finally opens his blinds when he gets home. Even opens the windows, as if the wind can air out the scent of his guilt.
Three hundred and four days later he walks into the waiting room of The Pitt and sits in the chairs of the waiting room. Letting the sounds, sights, and scents wash over him for the first time in months. He gives himself five minutes, takes a deep breath, and stands up.