Chapter Text
August, a Thursday night.
9:12 pm
Mel’s feet ache more than usual. Like someone has snuck past security to place stones wherever her path winds. Her most detailed medical evaluation of herself resulted in a simple this sucks. It doesn’t help that shifts have been more draining lately, the combination of Pittsburgh’s late summer heat and a certain nagging feeling being entirely unhelpful to the equation.
Her mind attempts to keep her from loneliness, but the typically inspirational thoughts that focus her judgment are absent, floating somewhere in the vast space of the universe.
(Of late, Mel's playlists have found themselves to be missing new Megan Thee Stallion music.)
She would love nothing more than to sit criss-cross apple sauce (a Becca specialty) and pretend everything is awesome (!) whilst her brain happily instructs her fingers to type all the right words into this keyboard for charting.
Unfortunately, Mel knows for a fact that Dr. Santos would eventually see her and inevitably construct some terrible elementary-style nickname that would haunt Mel for the rest of time. Shudders rack through her body at the thought.
Mel just got on her good side.
“Excited for tonight?” Dr. Mohan, Samira, has appeared across from her computer now, an angel coming to save her from the thoughts swirling inside her brain.
Or better yet, replace those thoughts with even more terrifying ones.
Mel hesitates. “Uhhhm…depends.”
“Depends?”
“Yes, the jury is still out. No opinion has been finalized. They are still pondering the case.”
“Like they have been for the past 2 weekss…” Samira attempts to murmur under her breath, but unfortunately for her, she has acquired a best friend with excellent hearing.
“I’m just not sure if I’m ready to do this.” The typical sturdiness found in Mels’ voice is gone, and both of them can instantly tell when the words hit the air.
“Cmonnn,” Samira groans as if she’s heard this story 1000 times before. In defense, Mel would argue that her apprehensiveness has only been displayed 14 times since the original idea was brought to her attention.
“One night, one hour, and two free drink tickets that we could put to good use. Plus, my mom bought passes to this speed dating thing for the BOTH of us.”
Mel makes her sigh known. “Most likely because she’s aware we don’t have lives.” For one, she is still confused about how Samira’s mom found tickets to this kind of event in the first place.
“Who wouldn’t love meeting new people!” Sarcasm oozes from Samira’s words, her brain feeling like a large mass of soggy seaweed whenever a discussion surrounding her mother occurs. Her thoughts instantly become tangled and reek of chlorophyllin dyed anxiety.
“And Mel, she KNOWS we don’t have lives, at least not outside of this place.”
“Who doesn’t have a life?” Dr. Abbott has now miraculously appeared, confidence and bergamot following closely behind. Mel imagines bashing her head against the keyboard. Unwise, but deeply necessary.
Samira's body somehow jumps into an invisible straitjacket, and Mel takes note of how her friend's body tenses almost immediately to the proximity of the certain attending. With a tablet in his hands, he appears oblivious, but Mel catalogs this moment in her brain to bring up later.
“My mother, unfortunately.” Samira’s tone is not new to either of the doctors currently in her presence. Almost the entire Pitt crew is aware of her situation, all thanks to a day that is, ironically, dedicated to independence.
“She bought us tickets to some stupid speed dating thing tonight at Space Bar.”
Dr. Abbot goes still for a second. A blink restarts his system, and he nods towards Samira. “Cool.”
He exits the conversation as swiftly as he entered, headed in the direction of South 17, where Mel knows he is going to revisit the 62-year-old Italian female who earlier offered the recipe to her spaghetti all’Arrab-something, a dish she overheard Dr. Abbot exclaim has been torturing his GrubHub app for weeks now.
Dr. Langdon, Frank, was currently seated bedside, treating the second-degree burn on her forearm.
A casual glance following Dr. Abbot's strides to the pillar of Italian grandmother-ness allows Mel the opportunity to do a mental check-in on Dr. Lan--Frank.
Nice posture. Nice dressing-wound skills. Nice hands. Hands.
Woah.
A blink brings Mel back to the computer in front of her. She wishes she could escape this whole thing just as easily.
Wise Dr. Abbot, very wise.
August, the same night.
10:26 pm
Mel’s face keeps uncomfortably flinching at the sheer amount of sound vibrating off the walls and the water dripping off every part of her body.
“Welll…it could be worse?” Samira’s statement is worded in hopeful spirits due to the ok-ish scenery of people currently mingling, but the question mark aptly placed at the end wildly bounces around both of their heads.
The sticky floor beneath Mel's new balances isn't helping the case either.
Across the congested room, a redheaded woman appears, microphone and daunting clipboard in hand. Samira and Mel can audibly hear each other's gulps.
“OK EVERYONE PLEASE LISTEN UP. Take note of the numbered tables around the room, and check your confirmation email to head to your first spot. For those of you who have already forgotten, you’ll have 9 minutes at each table, and then the gentlemen will rotate whilst the ladies stay put. ANY QUESTIONS?”
Mel shakes her head vigorously at this too-cheery organizer, while Samira wishes a quick and easy death.
“GREAT! If everyone’s all set, go forth and DATE!”
The great scuffle of people moving in the bar now harshly guides Mel and Samira’s bodies towards the front corner near the entrance, and for a couple of seconds, Mel thinks about making a run for it. Samira would forgive her.
Eventually.
Her strategic game planning is paused with the introduction of an elbow at her side.
“Ohw! What was that for?”
Samira’s mouth remains closed, but her widened eyes prompt Mel to follow the same direction.
Towards the water-streaked windows that artistically mix the downpower and fluorescent lighting of Market Square.
Towards the entrance. Towards someone just in the entrance, shaking his hair free of water droplets.
Towar— “Holy shit.”
Even amongst the chaos, Samira’s murmur is heard loud and clear.
I’ve fallen asleep, is the first logical reason Mel’s mind can spin up. Yes, that’s completely right. I fell asleep tying my sneakers, and my body is slumped peacefully in the employee lounge right now.
“Holy shit.”
The second exclamation from Samira brings Mel back to reality, or really, to the nightmare that has become life. Her throat has immediately gone dry, scratchy, and fiery, all in the same second.
“That’s not. No, no way.”
“Uh, yes way. You need new glasses.”
“Bhh-h but why?” Mel hates that apparently she’s stuttering now, hates that she feels naked, hates every second that ticks by one by one.
“Beats me." Samira pauses. Why don’t you go ask?”
“What?! Are you insane?”
Mel whips her head back towards her friend to confirm that she must be joking, but the smirk spreading across Samira’s face easily supplies an answer.
The answer Mel was not hoping for.
In the time it takes Mel to realize what’s happening next, it’s already happening. Her body being shoved forward by the strong hands of a one Samira Mohan despite her body's best protest.
Newton be damed.
More importantly, Mel’s body is being shoved in a particular direction. Shoved in a direction she never, in a million years, thought possible to be traveling in outside of white walls and fluorescent lighting.
Shoved in a direction that makes her heart want to jump out of her chest, praying with each beat for all of this to be a dream.
Shoved in the direction of Frank Langdon.