Chapter Text
For a moment, when Frank wakes up, he isn’t sure where he is.
The sun is coming in through the windows all wrong—directly beside him instead of at his feet, slats of mid-morning light glowing diagonally across his side and his arm. He’s oddly hot under the covers, too, a line of heat down his front, and his eyebrows furrow in thought. Only seconds later, his eyes snap open, everything rushing back at once: the near kiss in the parking lot, Mel settling in his lap on the edge of this very bed, the sudden derailing of their pretend relationship back into just friends.
Beside him, Mel is still asleep, her lips slightly parted. She hadn’t gone far in their sleep; she’s curled into the space between them, legs tangled with his, her fingers twitching against his chest. Frank’s hand is on her waist, his fingertips brushing the sliver of skin below her shirt, where it got tugged out of place. Her skin is warm, soft beneath the pads of his fingers. Without her glasses, her face is—softer. More vulnerable.
Her unconscious, unwavering trust guts him, like she’s reached into his stomach and scooped everything out.
Frank swallows thickly, throat working, and takes a second—just one—to mourn what he lost before he ever had it. The relationship was fake, and so was the breakup; why does he feel so hollow, then? Like he’s lost her in such a significant way?
Carefully, slow as molasses, Frank moves his hand back, his fingertips buzzing with the memory of Mel’s bare skin under his hand. (Once, twice, three times he’d touched her directly, impressions he’ll never forget for as long as he lives). Her brow furrows, and he freezes, fingertips still brushing the very edge of her stomach. Mel’s eyelashes flutter, and then her eyes snap open, pupils instantly contracting with the influx of light.
She meets Frank’s eyes, and his breath stutters in his chest.
“Hi,” Frank greets cautiously, his voice rough with sleep, with something indefinable he doesn’t dare examiner any closer.
“Hi,” Mel returns, studying him closely, her hand relaxed where it rests on his chest. Frank swallows, and he lifts his palm from her side; before he can go far, her fingers wrap around his, stilling him. “Frank,” she murmurs. “I’m sorry, for—” Mel breathes in, gathering herself, putting the pieces of the puzzle back together. “I’m sorry for what I said last night.”
In another world, maybe Frank could appreciate the apology. Then again, in another world, they wouldn’t be in this situation at all, curled close in the same bed but a million miles apart.
“No need to be sorry,” Frank replies, and forces a smile he knows is tired, bittersweet. Mel King is in his bed, a dream he only recently admitted to himself that he had, and he can’t even be happy about it. “You said what you needed to. I appreciate the honesty,” he continues, the words acidic, scraping up his throat on the way out.
“Frank—” Mel tries again, and Frank turns his wrist gently, Mel releasing him immediately. She’s always tactile like that, aware of the minute changes in body language from the people around her. Her eyes are bruised, very dark. For a single second, Frank is glad she’s hurt, that she’s in the same kind of pain he is—and then immediately hates himself for the thought.
“Please—don’t, Mel, okay?” Frank sighs, and then sits up, Mel’s hand dropping to the mattress between them. He drags his hands down his face, pressing into his closed eyes until little bursts of color pop behind his eyelids. “I think we should get ready separately.”
“Okay,” Mel agrees in a timid voice; it’s the kind of tone he’s never heard her use with him, like she’s scared of what he’ll say next. If there was an award for biggest asshole of the day, Frank believes without a shadow of a doubt that he’d receive it. “Are you upset with me?” she asks; her bluntness is undercut only by the waver in her tone.
He should say no. Frank should tell her that he’s not upset with her, and that the abrupt end of their fake relationships means nothing to him. Or, he could tell her that he is upset with her, and because of that, he needs space—needs time to screw his head back on straight and ensure that he can return to normal after this. (Did they ever have a sense of normal, Frank wonders? Has their relationship ever been appropriate?)
Instead, Frank takes the cowardly route.
“Why would I be?” Frank asks. Through his fingers, he sees Mel falter, and then her eyes dart away, her forehead crinkling.
“I don’t like when you answer a question with another question,” Mel informs him. “I don’t know how to navigate that.”
“I’m not upset,” Frank tries. “There’s nothing to be upset about.” He forces a smile. It’s tight, tugging uncomfortably at the edges of his mouth, and it does nothing to change Mel’s expression. It’s somewhat true—he’s not upset at Mel. There’s a whole lot to be upset about, but it’s just self-loathing with a twist. He has plenty to hate himself for; falling in love with Mel is simply another bullet point to add to the list. Something to unpack later with his sponsor, probably. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Mel,” Frank continues, softening gradually, gentling his tone. Mel watches him steadily, her dark eyes somewhat unfocused. She looks younger, Frank thinks. Softer around the edges. “I don’t want you to think that you did.”
“If I did do something wrong,” Mel begins haltingly, and Frank drops his hands to his lap, studying the bumps of his knuckles, the bones jutting out at his wrists. “You would tell me, right?” She tilts her head, and Frank closes his eyes against the image of her still lying beside him, her hair fanned out across the pillow, the blankets draped around her stomach. The observation that she isn’t wearing a bra and he can tell is going to send him straight to hell.
“Of course, sweetheart,” Frank replies, a lie he speaks for them both. He avoids Mel’s eyes, staring steadfastly at where the sun pools in wrinkles created by the blankets, small rivers of gold that trickle over the edge of the mattress. “What, uh—” his voice dips out, still gravelly from sleep, and he clears his throat loudly. “What’s the plan for today?”
“I think Evie wants me to go with her to venue,” Mel informs him, her voice somewhat approaching normal—lower, like his is, drowsy, and Frank shifts uncomfortably. The tragedy of this conversation somehow doesn’t trump biology. His body is very aware of the fact that a beautiful woman is beside him, messy-haired, sleep thick in her throat. “She has a lot to do today, obviously, and I’m happy to help out. The reception starts at 1:00pm. I’ll be leaving with her, and you can leave when you’re ready?”
“Not what I meant,” Frank hints, aiming for light—he almost reaches, it too. “I meant for us.”
“Ah,” Mel acknowledges softly. “We can do what we did—before. We had a professional relationship and then a more personal one when I started visiting you in rehab,” she continues, mostly speaking aloud. It’s cute, Frank thinks, and could hit himself for the thought. “I think we could go back to that.”
It’s a herculean task not to confess that there is no going back for him. There’s no telling whether it began from the moment they worked the ED together, or when Garcia handed him the card, or when Mel hovered in the doorway of the rehab center, hair aglow from the afternoon sun—but at some point, it began, and the professional relationship burned up into ash. There is no reality where Frank isn’t in love with Mel King. Frank can pretend, though, and he can ignore his needs. He’s become excellent at that, over the years—hiding his chronic pain, his addiction, pretending as if his marriage wasn’t done long before he signed the papers not once, but twice.
Rurik would tell Frank to take space and only come back to the friendship when he feels ready. If Frank is incapable of maintaining this relationship without self-sabotaging his progress and his mental health, he needs to get out.
Cassie and Garcia would both tell him he’s being an idiot and to not let Mel go without a fight. Abby might say something similar, now, which still shocks him speechless.
“Me, too,” Frank eventually agrees, and is awarded with Mel’s face finally softening, her lips curving in a private smile—the one she only gives him. His heart lurches, and then sinks to somewhere around his small intestine.
It’s going to be a long, long day.
They do get dressed separately, as Frank requested, though he’s not sure if that’s in preservation of his feelings or because it’s too intimate to do otherwise. It took him over a year of being married to Abby to change in front of her outside of the context of sex, and he’d known her for several years before that point. There’s something vulnerable about taking your clothes off in front of another person for the first time, and given Mel’s abrupt turnaround on the nature of their relationship—point is, Frank is all too happy to strip in the bedroom while she takes the bathroom. The breeze that comes in through the cracked window is balmy, scented with lilacs, fresh and bright in the murky air of the bedroom.
Though he’s on a separate timetable from Mel, Frank still prepares for the event. Prepared for it all, come what may, et cetera; he’s spent this whole week on the back foot—for once he’d like to face the universe head-on. Frank tugs his slacks on, buttons his shirt up to the top, and then tucks it in, looping a belt around his waist. Generally, he’s against wearing suits, but it is a wedding. He leaves the jacket off for now, draping his tie around his neck and not tying it quite yet—lavender, to match Mel’s dress. Mel announces she’s done before she re-enters, a small consideration that makes Frank love her all the more.
The door cracks open, Mel slipping through the space, and Frank does a double take—then a triple take, because Jesus Christ. Mel still isn’t wearing her glasses, her eyes large and dark, and her hair is draped over one shoulder, lazy waves pulled away from the graceful curve of her neck. Her shoulders and arms are bare, and the hem hits mid-thigh, showing the strong lines of her calves. The dress is pale lavender, just like she said; what she neglected to say, though, was that it exposes the swell of her breasts, a hint of cleavage that dries Frank’s mouth out instantly.
“Wow,” is the only word he comes up with, strangled and raspy, and Mel tucks her hair behind her ear, her face pink as she glances away. “You look—wow,” Frank tries again. He clears his throat. “You look beautiful, Mel.”
“Thank you,” she murmurs shyly. “Becca picked it out for me. She has an eye for color.”
“She did an incredible job,” Frank says honestly. “Make sure you tell her that.”
“It’ll go right to her head, but I will,” Mel says warmly. Her gaze flits over his shoulders, down to his stomach, back up again, a hummingbird darting to and fro. Mel doesn’t move for a moment, wavering where she stands. Frank regards her in silence, and finally, she asks, “Do you want me to do your tie for you?”
This is dangerous territory. The right decision is to say no, to let Mel down gently and tie it himself. It’s not like he’s incapable; Frank has been tying his own ties since he was in high school, even if they always ended up a little lopsided and he had to fix them three times throughout the event.
Against his better judgment, Frank says, “Yeah, please. If you don’t mind. It always comes out crooked when I do it.”
Mel steps closer to him, and Frank meets her in the middle, tilting his chin up. He studies the wall over her head, breathing slowly, his attention on everything but Mel. Her breath is warm against his throat, and her knuckles brush his skin with each movement, looping the fabric over itself and through the knot. His skin is stretched thin, too tight; sparks crackle everywhere Mel touches him, and when she finishes, she fans her hands out on either side of his neck, over his chest, inspecting her work. Frank glances down, swallowing thickly; Mel’s observation drops to his throat, and she rests the pads of her first two fingers just beneath his cricoid cartilage, into the soft hollow of his windpipe—like she’s checking his pulse. His heart thuds steadily, too strong.
“Mel,” Frank murmurs softly. Mel startles, her hand dropping, and she steps away. He clears his throat, brushing his own fingers over the knot.
“All done,” Mel assures him, nodding her head quickly. “I’m going to…” Mel gestures at the door with a hand. “I’ll meet you there?”
“Yeah,” Frank agrees. “Yeah, I’ll see you there.”
As soon as she leaves, he sits on the edge of the bed, his hands folded together between his bent knees. It’s a shadow of the pose he’d sunk into the night before, only without the emotional turmoil, this time. Frank hears Evie and Mel talking downstairs, the door closing, and the car starting outside. The silence left behind by Mel’s departure is not a comforting one, and Frank’s leg starts jumping, his thumbs pressing hard into the opposite knuckles. He leans back, trying to settle his nerves; the bed still smells like Mel’s shampoo, and he jerks straight again, standing suddenly.
Frank dials Cassie’s number. Not Rurik or Abby, and certainly not Garcia—Cassie believed in him from the start, from rehab to the wedding and all the hurdles in between.
“Frank?” Cassie asks, slightly staticky. Frank hears clattering in the background; she’s either cooking or putting away dishes, a familiar sound in her house. “Is everything okay?”
“I fucked up,” Frank says, running a hand through his hair. He paces the length of the room, turns again, and walks it again. “I think—I don’t know what I did wrong, but she changed her mind last night. I didn’t do anything, or say something stupid this time; she just—she just called it off, and…”
“Slow down, honey,” Cassie encourages. “Breathe for a second, okay?” Frank follows her directions too rapidly, his chest expanding and contracting in less than a second. “Slower.” Frank tries again, longer on the inhale and the exhale, and he hears rustling as Cassie nods. Harrison yells something in the background; Cassie puts her hand over the phone and says something back, muffling the response from Frank. “Good. Tell me what happened.”
Frank does. He leaves out some of the more intimate details, but the rest of the story leaves him in a rush—the test run in the diner and the near-kiss in the parking lot, getting Emerson to back off, the conversation with Dom, and Mel’s conversation with Evie, the resulting fallout.
“Do you know what Evie and Mel talked about?” Cassie asks. “I mean specifically, Frank. What did Evie and Mel discuss?”
“I don’t know,” Frank admits, because he doesn’t. It wasn’t his place to ask, and the conclusion he’s landed himself in now makes him want to know even less. “Whatever they talked about made Mel decide it wasn’t a good idea for us to continue.”
“Is it possible,” Cassie starts cautiously. “That she made that decision because she’s in the same situation you are?” Frank emits a strangled sound, too wounded to be a laugh. “I’m serious. She said she can’t separate reality from fiction, right? Maybe she kept forgetting it was fake, too.”
“Do you think so?” Frank asks, his voice uncharacteristically small. He always speaks loudly, taking up the whole room with his tone, his cadence; he doesn’t have the strength, now, to speak much louder than a murmur. “I don’t—I can’t be wrong, Cass. I’m fucked up enough about her. I don’t think I could handle it.” The bedroom is too small, five steps taking him across the entire space, but he keeps pacing it anyway. “Why wouldn’t she tell me that?”
“You didn’t tell her, either,” Cassie points out bluntly, and Frank winces.
“I was going to,” Frank informs her. “Before she backed out the night before the wedding.”
“You still could,” Cassie encourages further. Frank snorts. “Are you really going to go this whole week without saying anything? What are you going to do when you come back to work, huh? Pretend like it didn’t happen?” Cassie continues, digging her elbow into all of Frank’s weak spots with frightening ease. “And when somebody inevitably sweeps her off her feet and they sail away from PTMC together, what’s going to happen? You gonna’ pretend to be happy for her? Relapse to escape the reality that you let her go?”
It sounds almost exactly like what Abby said to him before he left, a parallel he doesn’t appreciate in the slightest. Apparently, the women in his life are all on the same page and Frank is a chapter behind, stuck scanning words in a different language.
“Okay, Cass, lighten up. I get it,” Frank mumbles. His chest has that hollow feeling again, his heart sitting porous and empty just to the left of his sternum, like all his vessels and blood and tissue were scraped out. “That’s not going to happen.”
“It might,” Cassie says, a little softer. Her words are still undercut with steel, unflinching in Frank’s ear. “Mel isn’t the risk to your recovery she thinks she is. Letting the one good thing in your life right now pass you by is.” Frank stands there in stunned silence. “You need to tell her that before she internalizes this and you lose her.”
“Thanks, Cass. You really know how to kick a guy when he’s down,” Frank mutters, but there’s no heat behind his words, no anger.
“Yeah, I do, right?” Cassie agrees easily. “Get out there, tiger. Show her you’re the perfect man for her, and not that douchebag brother of Evie’s.”
It isn’t the most reassuring advice he’s ever received, but Frank takes it to heart, mulling over Cassie’s words as he slicks product into his hair, pats himself down for all his belongings, and heads out to his car.
The venue, expectedly, is a sea of controlled chaos. His wedding was the same, teetering on a knife’s edge of everything going wrong at once and it all working out in the end. Every wedding is a little bit of both, Frank has found. He’s careful not to hit anyone’s car (or anyone in general, for that matter) as he parks and steps out, perusing the gently sloping hill that sprawls out from the parking lot, the large tents, the caterers rushing back and forth with trays of food. Above him, the sky has started to turn gray, clouds rolling in from the south; it doesn’t look like rain to him, and he hopes for Evie’s and Dom’s sake—for all the wedding guests’ sakes, really—that the rain holds off and the clouds turn out to be a threat with no promise. Humidity hangs thick and cloying in the air, weighing him down, like he’s treading water as he paces towards the tents. Dom is standing down towards the water, a cigarette between his lips, his hands fiddling nervously with his lighter. Frank is unexpectedly warmed by the sight. He knows exactly what those pre-wedding jitters are like.
“Hey, Dom. Ready for the big day?” Frank asks, chipper and light, nudging Dom with his elbow. Frank’s wedding was short, to the point, and dry, Abby’s parents looking on like judges at their sentencing, his own parents shifting uncomfortably beside them. A friend to help keep him sane was a luxury he wasn’t afforded, but maybe he could be that for Dom.
“Hey, look who cleans up nice,” Dom jokes, taking the hand Frank offers and tugging him in to pat him on the back. “Ready to get married, for sure. Dunno’ about the rest of it,” they admit easily, inhaling smoke quickly and exhaling it through their nostrils, away from Frank. He’s in an inverse tuxedo, white jacket with a black shirt, throwing his dark complexion into sharp relief. “Want one?”
“Nah, I’m trying to cut back,” Frank admits, which is news to him, too—but it feels right, somehow. Another tally in the column of changes he’s trying out now that his life is entirely off the rails. “There’s still time, you know. I could tell the guests you suddenly got violently, disgustingly ill and I rushed you to the hospital.” Frank grins. “I’m a doctor, they’d understand.”
“Mel would back you up on that one, too,” Dom chuckles. “Did you talk to her, by the way?”
“Mm,” Frank hums, stalling for time. Dom rolls his eyes, flicking the filter end of his cigarette. “Kind of.”
“So, no,” Dom guesses, and Frank winces. “Damn, man. I tried to get Evie to give her a nudge, too. Guess she didn’t.”
“What?” Frank asks, suddenly straightening. His back sends a quiet protest up his brain stem; he ignores it. “You told Evie to talk to her?”
“Yeah, but if it didn’t work out…Evie must not have?” Dom guesses, and Frank shakes his head.
“Evie talked to her, and Mel broke up with me directly afterwards. Like—minutes later,” Frank states plainly, indicating the lack of time with his forefinger and thumb. “Or, fake broke up with me. Doesn’t matter. It’s over.” He shrugs his shoulders, his smile too sharp to be anything except deeply affected.
“Have you realized,” Dom starts delicately, “That you and Mel have talked to everyone except each other?” He drops his cigarette, smoke curling, and shoves his hands in his pockets. The orange gradually fades into gray, ash scattering.
“I tried,” Frank says hollowly. He shoves his hands in his pockets to prevent himself from ruining his hair, or his tie, or wrinkling his shirt. “She said she wanted us to keep being friends. She made it pretty fucking clear, actually, that she didn’t want to lose that.”
Dom regards him for a terribly long moment, seconds ticking by, his gaze black and skeptical.
“Try harder,” Dom finally advises him, and claps him on the shoulder. “Enjoy the wedding.” He meanders back towards the gathering, hands in his pockets. A cooler wind whips off the lake, stirring the leaves, lifting his tie over his shoulder. Frank doesn’t feel any closer to the truth.
The parties start taking their places at the altar, and Frank sighs, grinding his palms into his eyes for a moment before following Dom. He takes his seat in the second row, his left leg immediately starting to jump, his hands on his thighs. Emerson is on the groom’s side, sleek and beautiful in an entirely black tuxedo; the remaining groomsmen are either in all black or all white, alternating shades to match Dom’s inverse garb. Above, the clouds continue to darken, pale gray thickening into granite, heavy as stone.
When Frank glances to his right, Mel is slipping silently into the seat beside him, her hair now gathered into a complicated updo. Evie’s doing, Frank imagines, memorizing the shell of her ear, the curve of her jaw, how long and graceful her neck is. Mel’s eyes cut to his, and she offers him a tiny, hesitant smile, a little crooked.
They don’t get the chance to speak before the priest (minister? Frank could never tell the difference between all the religious titles) begins speaking in an unexpectedly deep, clear voice, carrying easily across the crowd. Frank tunes him out a little bit, instead, watching Dom’s eyes tear up, how Evie bites her bottom lip, radiant in a pearlescent gown with a train that pools like spun silk at her feet. Emerson glances at them several times, Mel’s hands curling tighter and tighter in her lap; at one point, Frank slips his hand between hers, gentling the harsh flex of her fingers. In his periphery, her expression slackens with surprise, and then relief.
Evie and Dom both cry the entire way through their vows, their voices wavering, and Frank hears Mel breathing deliberately, very rhythmically, like she’s trying not to cry with them. Frank releases her hand to wrap an arm around her shoulder instead, rubbing her upper arm, and Mel leans into him gratefully. The lines are blurred so severely that Frank can’t discern whether he should be worrying he’s overstepping or if this is business as usual for them. He doesn’t overthink the gesture, or Mel’s response; what he does think about is Cassie’s encouragement, Dom’s, the chance to set things right slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass.
The minister (priest?) abruptly pronounces them as partners in life and in death and sweeps his arms out wide for them to seal the vows with a kiss. Everyone stands, Mel surreptitiously wiping her eyes, and Frank claps loudly, shouting his own excitement into the din that rises up around them. Evie and Dom lean into each other, and Evie spins them around, dipping Dom into a complicated move that has him laughing against her mouth.
The clouds that had been threatening rain all day finally crack open above them, a cascade of water pouring forth that immediately drenches Frank through his shirt. Rounds of shocked screams and groans go up around them, and Frank fumbles for Mel’s hand, her palm slick and warm in his. Dom laughs loudly, tilting his head up into the downpour, and Evie shrieks, trying to duck under his arm.
“Let’s go!” Frank calls over the deluge, his hair flopping into his eyes, rainwater sinking into his shoes. He turns in a quick circle, one of his shoes sliding across the grass; it’s only Mel’s hand still in his that keeps him upright, and she tugs on his arm, beginning to jog in a seemingly random direction.
“Gazebo!” Mel directs over her shoulder, and Frank follows her closely to the proposed hideaway, nearly tripping over her heels. The rest of the wedding party is filtering around them, heading for the tent or the parking lot. The gazebo is a little further, down towards the water, and Frank keeps a close eye on Mel, on where his own shoes land, making sure neither of them go down. The rain continues its torrential downpour, so heavy he can barely see—and then all of a sudden he’s stumbling up the steps, Mel’s hand still in his.
“Ow, fuck,” Frank mutters, catching his toes on the top step; he releases Mel’s hand only to grapple at one of the railings, barely keeping himself on his feet. “Where the fuck did that come from?” he asks nobody in particular, facing out towards the water. The lake is relatively still, its surface only broken up by the fat, constant drops drizzling from the sky.
“The forecast did call for rain,” Mel answers, and when Frank turns, the world—stops. Mel’s dress is plastered to her skin, goosebumps prickled along her arms, the smooth skin of her chest. Her hands are in her hair, carefully taking out the hairstyle Evie had helped her with, and Frank’s eyes dip down, stuck on the beige strapless bra visible through her dress. He gulps audibly, and when his eyes finally make it back up to Mel’s face, she’s watching him closely, her lower lip tucked under her teeth. “Frank?” she questions softly, just his name, and Frank—
Frank remembers Mel weaving around him, her eyes intent on his mouth every time he spoke, like anything he said was worth listening to. You’re back! she called across the trauma department, elated and giddy, as if his return was the best part of her day. Mel’s hands underneath his, gloved and ungloved, passing instruments, her wrist turning until their palms met. Good luck, Dr. Langdon, penned neatly on cardstock. Mel’s head tucked against his chest, her shoulder nudged into his, the warmth of her skin beneath his hands, his mouth. Mel, Mel, Mel.
The remaining fragile thread of his self-control snaps.
“I’m in love with you,” he blurts, and Mel’s lips part, her movements ceasing. “I’ve been in love with you for—fuck, for two months, at least, I don’t know.” Frank lets out a high, shaky laugh, edged with hysteria. “Since that first shift, I think.”
“Frank—”
“And I know you don’t feel the same way—I came to terms with it, okay, I promise, this doesn’t have to change anything,” Frank rambles, running a hand back through his hair, squeezing tight until water drips down the back of his neck. It sinks into his collar, damp and uncomfortable.
“Frank,” Mel tries again.
“But I needed you to know, before—because—”
“Frank,” Mel interrupts, sharp and flat. Her hands are holding his, her fingers pressing into his palms. When did that happen? Frank blinks, stunned, his mind churning, two steps behind. “I’m in love with you too,” she says, and then she’s kissing him.
It takes a long moment for Frank’s brain to catch up, stuck on a loop between I’m in love with you too and Mel’s mouth on his—like lightning has suddenly struck him, he surges forward, his hand sliding up Mel’s neck and into her hair. Her lips are cool, slick with rain, but the inside of her mouth is white-hot, fire licking down Frank’s spine. It burns so hot it incinerates the ache that always sits in his lumbar spine, that iron grip of pain melting into the background. Mel tastes like the rain, like coming home, like the future, for the first time, is bright and blinding in front of him.
Mel’s hands fit around his waist, warm through the thin, soaked barrier of his shirt, and Frank leans into her, his other hand bracing over the dip of her spine. Mel breathes a soft, thready noise into his mouth, over his tongue, and Frank dips down to bite at her chin, the soft curve of her jaw. His palm slides down, down, until he cups her ass, and tugs her into him, his stubble rasping loudly against the soft skin below her ear as he nips at the lobe with too much teeth.
“Frank,” Mel gasps, one hand going into his hair and the other wrapping around his upper back, her fingers tightening in the fabric like a lifeline. She tugs at his hair and Frank moans, low and desperate in his chest, and he dips his tongue into the hollow of her throat, lapping at the rainwater pooled there. “Frank, we’re in—we’re in public,” Mel attempts, but she rolls her hips into him when he gets a thigh between her legs, when he uses the hand still on her ass to guide her against him.
“I know, baby,” Frank slurs, his head spinning, his thoughts in one constant loop of Mel’s name on repeat, the heat of her through her dress and his slacks, how she tastes like the earth, like grass, like rain. “Just let me, hang on—” Frank presses his forehead against her collarbone, pulling the wet hem of her dress away from her legs and sliding his hand up the outside of her thigh.
“No, I meant—” Mel’s voice cuts out when Frank grips her bare hip in his hand, his fingers and thumb pressing into the bone, dragging her forward. Mel whimpers, and she pulls his hair hard, tipping his face up until he blinks at her dazedly. “Frank, give me the keys. I’m going to drive us to the house.”
Her words don’t register at first, her skin very warm against his palm and that hard, intense look in her eye doing funny things to his stomach, but then she scratches her nails through his hair encouragingly, and Frank jumps to obey. He hands her the keys, and Mel firmly pushes his wrist out from under her dress, blinking dumbly at her. The rain still patters on the top of the gazebo, drizzling steadily, and Frank spares a thought for how much wetter they’ll both be when they sprint back out towards the parking lot—but then Mel is twisting her hand into his tie, tugging him towards her as she walks backwards, and Frank decides he doesn’t care.
They both take off running in the direction of the cars, Frank’s hand pressed into the prominent ridge of his brow to try and keep the rain out of his eyes. He slides into the passenger seat, Mel quickly starting the car; Frank’s gaze hasn’t left her once, and as soon as she pulls out onto the road he places his palm over her leg, right above her knee her skin cool to the touch. Mel pauses at a stop light and his hand creeps up, fingers brushing her inner thigh, and Mel clamps down on his wrist.
“Frank,” she warns, breathless but firm. Her grip is tight around his arm, his pulse jackrabbiting against the pads of her fingers. “If you keep touching me, you’re going to make me crash the car.” She turns to look at him, her pupils very big.
“Sorry,” Frank immediately says, not apologetic at all, but he leaves his hand where it is, fingers pressed into where her inner thighs start to curve closer together—no higher, the heat of her tantalizingly close. He’s used to delayed gratification and having to wait for what he wants; he’d wait forever for this if it meant he’d get to experience it at all.
Mel pulls into the driveway so fast she nearly runs over the lawn gnome that marks the beginning of the walkway, parking diagonally across the entire driveway, and Frank hops out, stumbling in his haste to get up the steps. Mel is right behind him, hands curled into the back of his jacket, and as soon as he has the door open and shut again, he presses her back into it.
“When did it change?” he asks desperately, his palms fitting around her hips, his mouth at her throat. Mel whimpers against his lips, her head tipped back, and he nips at her pulse, the tendon below her jaw, quick and sharp, like he wants to eat her alive. He does, he thinks dazedly; he wants to consume her, to carry a piece of her with him even when this is over.
“I-it didn’t,” Mel stutters, one hand slipping into his hair again, the other on the back of his neck, her thumb and fingers clenching around his nape. “I knew from the start, I think, that I—Frank,” Mel whines, Frank pushing her firmer into the door, nearly lifting her off the ground. His thigh slips between her legs again, and he rocks into her, against her, tugging at her earlobe with his teeth when her hips jerk against him. He feels like a superhero, like the fucking Hulk, Mel solid and warm against him. Her grip around his neck tightens, pressing into the muscle there.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Frank breathes into the hollow beneath her jaw, scraping his teeth over the artery. Mel’s neck is a mess, patterned pink and red from his mouth, his stubble, and she shudders against him, bearing down when he presses his thigh up, thumbs digging into the crest of her pelvis on either side. “I know you can do it.” He fits his lips to her ear, nose in her hair, and slips his hand under her dress, shifting his thigh just enough to cup her through her underwear. Mel’s back arches, the back of her head thunking against the door. “You’re so beautiful, Mel,” he murmurs, his words bleeding together, consonants soft and sticky. He strokes her through the fabric, his thumb pressing higher, and Mel emits a choked-off, hoarse moan. “I wanna’—I wanna’ hear you, fuck, Mel, please,” Frank stutters. “I’ve been thinking about you for weeks,” he confesses roughly, dropping his forehead to her shoulder. “What you’d sound like, mostly, and then what you’d taste like if I ever got the chance—”
And Mel shatters apart, her hands seizing on his neck, in his hair, bursts of pain that zap down Frank’s spine and make his dick twitch. He waits there for a minute, breathing heavily, his chest expanding into the contractions of Mel’s. This wasn’t part of the plan, and he feels anxiety start to creep in, his stomach climbing up to his throat. “Mel?” he tries.
“Bed,” Mel demands, shoving at his shoulders. “Now, please.” He shifts out of Mel’s way and lets her pull him after her with a hand, her steps confident as she trots up the stairs.
“I wanted to go slow,” Frank babbles into the silence, drifting after Mel unsteadily, his eyes half-lidded, all of him throbbing. “I promise, okay, I had—I had plans for you, for us, for our first time.” Mel tugs him into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him, and Frank stands in the center of the room, downtrodden, like a wet dog. His shirt is plastered to his skin, his hair dripping rainwater onto his shoulders. “That wasn’t—I can be better, Mel, I—”
“Frank,” Mel interrupts, her voice soft but her tone stern, one hand curling into his tie again. “Stop talking, please,” she advises, and pulls him down into a kiss, hot and open-mouthed and aching. “You did fine. Excellent, even, that was—it isn’t usually that fast,” she says against his mouth, honest and firm, and it does something to Frank; his whole body lights up, and then he goes pliant, soft, letting Mel shove his jacket off his shoulders, allowing her to splay a palm over his chest and push him towards the bed. He sits, first, and then lies down, Mel straddling his hips, solid and warm against him. “With me, Frank?” she checks, cupping his cheek in her hand, leaning down until she can catch his eye.
“Yes, I—yeah,” Frank replies, and Mel nods. She shifts atop him, and Frank’s hands seize on the comforter below them, his stomach tightening. “Can I—” Mel repeats the movement, firmer this time, and Frank hisses in through his teeth, his jaw tight as a spring. Mel thumbs soothingly over the side of his nose, the divot above his lips, until she presses the pad to his lower lip. Frank opens his mouth obediently, and she pushes down on the flat of his tongue, her gaze clinically interested, like she’s studying him. Frank closes his lips around her thumb, scraping his teeth over her knuckle, and Mel’s eyes go very wide and very dark, her incisors pressing into her own lower lip. He’s so hard it’s painful, an ache with too many sharp edges in his abdomen.
“Do you have a condom?” she asks suddenly, and Frank stares at her, his brain processing her question sluggishly, like molasses.
“No, I—fuck, I don’t think so,” Frank slurs around her finger. There used to be one in his wallet, but he’d taken it out after he and Abby had separated; it wasn’t like they were going to be having sex again anytime soon. Mel slides her thumb out, placing her palm at the base of his throat, and Frank redirects his attention on her, on the weight of her in his lap.
“Breathe,” Mel directs him gently, and Frank inhales against her hand. “I have an IUD, but I like to be sure.” She runs a fingertip down the buttons of his shirt, pausing where it’s still tucked into his slacks. “I’m clean, if you wanted…”
“Yes,” Frank interjects. “Yes, please,” he continues, and Mel backs up to the edge of the bed, standing to strip her dress over her head. Frank gets the message and sits up, unbuttoning his shirt with quick, shaky hands and dropping it over the side. He undoes his belt, too, his slacks, barely getting them off his feet before Mel has her hands on his chest, threading her fingers through the hair there. He palms her hips, guiding her down onto her back, and Mel goes with him, her hands gripped around both his shoulders. “I’m clean, too,” he confirms without preamble, nuzzling at her neck, the swell of her breasts, his stubble rasping against her skin. He fumbles for the back of her bra, unsuccessfully attempting to unhook it three times before Mel takes pity on him and reaches around to help. He watches the deft turn of her forearm through half-lidded eyes, his breathing coming faster. “I haven’t had sex with anyone s-since Abby, and I get screened weekly in rehab, for substances and for STIs and—” Frank keeps babbling, until his voice abruptly cuts out when Mel finally pulls the fabric away and he can look at her, at the nearly-translucent skin of her breasts, how pink her nipples are. “Jesus fuck,” Frank groans, and he slides a hand around to the middle of Mel’s back, holding her up as he takes one into his mouth. Her skin tastes like the earth, heady and damp, and Frank laves his tongue over the peak and then scrapes with his teeth, Mel’s nails carving into his shoulders.
Frank switches to the other breast, using teeth again, tugging carefully. He nudges his thigh between her legs, and Mel’s knees splay, her back arching closer to him. It’s not quite the right angle to press against her, and he noses at her sternum, inhaling the light musk of her sweat, faded perfume, wet grass. “Frank,” Mel says suddenly, her hands fluttering down his sides, her fingers tucking just beneath his waistband. “Take these off.”
She doesn’t have to tell him twice. Frank gets a hand underneath the hem and tugs them down and off, the fabric sticking uncomfortably to his skin, and Mel squirms out of her own underwear. They’re the same heather gray as his, boyshorts, not even closest to the sexiest pair he’s seen. His nostrils flare.
“You’re bigger than average,” Mel comments bluntly, and Frank grins messily, slightly lopsided. “I’m assuming you didn’t bring lubrication, so you’ll have to warm me up a little bit before we attempt penetration.”
“You really know how to gas a guy up,” Frank teases, brushing the backs of his fingers up Mel’s inner thigh and leaning down to nose at her neck. Mel frowns severely, but it melts away when Frank strokes the pads of his fingers along her entrance, still warm and slick from her earlier orgasm. “Bigger than average? Be still my beating heart.”
“I wasn’t—it was a statement of fact, Frank, not—” Mel’s words shatter apart as Frank clumsily slides off the bed, his knees digging into the carpet. He drags Mel forward, biting at her inner thigh, nuzzling the peach fuzz there, and Mel’s fingers curl in his hair, right at his crown. “Is that okay for your back?” she asks tentatively, almost petting him, and Frank kisses the seam of her other thigh, just shy of where he wants to be.
“Trust me, this is the best place for my back,” Frank assures her, which isn’t exactly true, but he’s not going to tell her that. Frank uses his thumbs to spread her open, and then he licks right into her, groaning deep in his chest as soon as he gets to taste her. Mel makes a high, mewling sound, her fingers clamping in his hair, and Frank takes that as an encouraging sign, lapping at her greedily, like a man dying of thirst. Mel squirms against his mouth, and he curls his tongue up higher, sliding a finger into her underneath. He watches her closely over the heave of her chest, her eyebrows scrunched up, her jaw slack. She’s still pliant, warm, and he adds another finger after only a few strokes, slipping in easily alongside the other.
“Fuck,” Mel murmurs around biting her lip, her hips rising to meet his mouth, his hand, and he tries scissoring his fingers, spreading them as far as they’ll go inside her. “T-that’s good,” Mel tells him, and he licks up to her clit, pressing with the tip of his tongue, his grin sloppy. He’s wet to his chin, down his neck, and Mel hiccups on a sob as he adds a third finger.
“I wanna’ hear you,” Frank mutters against her. “I want to—fuck, Mel, I could stay here for hours.” His wrist is starting to cramp, his jaw aching; Frank ignores all these discomforts, drinking in the wet, slick sound of his fingers moving, the moisture smeared across his lips.
“W-wait,” Mel manages, and Frank pulls away, blinking up owlishly at her. Mel’s pupils are blown wide, so big there’s only a sliver of iris left. “I don’t usually orgasm more than once,” Mel informs him in a rush, her hand loose in his hair, her thumb in the hollow of his temple. “I’ve tried with other people, and by myself, and it doesn’t—work. I can’t get there.” She bites her lip, avoiding Frank’s eyes. “I don’t want to you to be disappointed if I—don’t, and I don’t want you to hurt yourself staying down there too long.”
“Mel,” Frank says patiently, his chin resting in the soft spot below her navel. “Mel, baby, this isn’t a performance review, okay? While I’d love to make you come with my tongue, I’m down here because I want to be,” Frank assures her, and watches color crawl up Mel’s neck, into her cheeks. He grins impishly. “Relax, sweetheart. I’m not gonna’ just stick my dick in you. It’s a marathon, right?” he continues, a little cheekily, and Mel tugs at his hair in warning. His cock twitches, and he shudders, his fingers flexing inside her. “But I really want to fuck you if you’re ready.”
“Please come back up here,” Mel says in lieu of confirming, and Frank hastily obeys, only taking great care when he slips his fingers from her. He kneels between her legs, a palm on one of her thighs, the other on the bed, and then hesitates, committing this moment to memory. Mel is rosy-cheeked, her hair mussed and still damp, curling into gentle waves; there are pink blemishes all down her neck, across her chest, and she’s got her lower lip between her teeth, red and swollen. “Frank?” Mel asks softly, and Frank shakes his head, rousing himself.
“I’m gonna’—tell me if you need me to stop, okay?” Frank advises her, and takes himself in hand, stroking once, twice, using his thumb to smear precum down his length. Mel wraps her hand around his, guiding him into place, and Frank nearly comes from the initial heat of her alone, slick and hot around him. He hisses a breath in through his teeth, brow furrowing, and feels sweat bead at his temple, the nape of his neck. Mel scratches over his scalp, through where his hair starts to get longer at his crown, and links the fingers of her other hand around his forearm braced on the bed. He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, until he’s seated fully, Mel’s ass against the front of his thighs. “Fuck,” he curses, going absolutely still. “With me?” he grits out, and Mel nods, her eyes shut, her lip still tucked under her teeth. She squirms, and Frank’s abdomen flexes tight, a warning tingle. “Wait, Mel, stop—you gotta’ stop moving, baby,” Frank says desperately; he’s been hard for what feels like hours, toeing the line of what’s sure to be an incredible orgasm, and Mel keeps moving.
“Sorry, you’re bigger than I’m used to,” Mel murmurs, and Frank would brag if he was capable of thinking about anything besides not coming in four seconds flat. Frank pulls back slightly, pushes in again just as slowly, and Mel shifts her hips up to meet him, like she’s trying to sink him deeper.
“Don’t, ah—don’t apologize,” Frank grits out. He thinks of compound fractures, of supergluing someone’s head shut, and then of that woman holding a container of her own puke in the waiting room; none of it helps. His palm pushes down, pressing Mel’s leg wider, and he moves tortuously slow, tiny thrusts until Mel’s nails carve into his side, urging him faster. “Tell me what you like,” he grunts, his hair flopping in his eyes, his mouth at Mel’s neck.
“You can—harder, please,” Mel informs him, and Frank slips his hand around to the outside of her leg, hitching it over his hip. He rolls his hips more earnestly, and then he hits this spot in her, her whole body arching off the bed, rising to meet him. She clamps around his dick like a vice, and he grits hit teeth so hard he’s worried they’ll crack, pushing down on the heat creeping up his spine, the flutter in his belly. All of his sensory nerves light up at once, like lightning sparking across his skin.
“Fuck, Mel, I-I…” Frank gasps, and then he comes, his whole body going rigid, his muscles pulling up tight into his navel. Mel blinks at him, and Frank isn’t sure or anything, but he knows it’s been less than three minutes—a new low for him. His back twinges, as if suddenly reminding him that it’s there and that his new life is far worse than his old one.
“It’s okay,” Mel says preemptively, and Frank shakes his head sharply, like a dog. “Frank, it’s fine. You don’t have to…”
“No, let me just—” Frank slips out of her, cupping a hand against her, and nudges her up with the palm of his hand. “I can, I’m gonna’—hold on, okay.” Mel shifts backwards obediently, putting her head on the pillow, and Frank slides his palms under her ass. He eats her out messily, sloppily, all tongue and lips, salt and tang and earth on his palate, and Mel’s hands grab tight into the sheets, her head thrown back, all the muscles in her neck flexed.
“F-Frank,” she whines, her feet planted on the bed, and he lifts her hips a little, sucking at her clit, the sharp jut of his chin pressed almost into her. Mel’s legs lock around his head, her thighs clenching, and Frank purrs against her, a deep rumbling in his chest, encouraging without having to use his words. Her orgasm surprises him as much as it surprises her; she suddenly shudders against him, all the muscles below her hips contracting at once. She gently tips his face away with a hand on his cheek, and when Frank looks up at her, her eyelashes are wet, her chest rising unevenly.
“It’s okay,” he slurs, crawling up to stretch out beside her, tucking her face into his chest. He runs a hand up her back, over the notches of her spine, pressing firmly to steady her. “Talk to me, sweetheart. You okay?”
“Yes,” she breathes into his neck, nuzzling at his throat. “Yes, I’m—I’m okay. It was a lot.”
“Was it good?” Frank asks into her hair, aiming for blasé but landing about a hundred miles west, in caring very deeply territory.
“You did very well,” Mel says softly, carding her fingers through his hair, tracing the shell of his ear. “You were amazing.” His body goes loose, tension he didn’t know he was carrying leeching from his muscles.
Before Frank can lose his nerve, he asks, “Why did you try to end it?”
“Evie figured it out,” Mel explains. “She, um—she guessed, last night. That’s what we talked about.” Her gaze hovers around his nose, her hand resting on his chest. She idly traces her fingers through his chest hair, down the divot between his pectorals.
“Dom knows too,” Frank replies. “He encouraged me to go for it.” Frank stops, considering. “Is that why you wanted to call it off?” He tilts his head. Mel’s gaze tracks the movement. “Because they found out?”
“No,” Mel answers instantly. “They’re only tangentially related. Evie pointed out that continuing this might negatively impact your recovery,” Mel continues. Frank watches her steadily, but she still won’t look at his face, focused on her hand tracing the hollows above his collarbones. “I worried that I was crossing boundaries before you had time to realize they were there.”
“I would have told you if you did,” Frank tells her honestly. “That was the agreement, right?”
“Would you have known?” Mel challenges. Frank frowns, and Mel winces, finally glancing up at him through her eyelashes. “I’m sorry, that sounded—inflammatory.”
“No, it makes sense,” Frank agrees softly.
“I don’t care that Evie figured it out. She told me I was going to lose you if I didn’t make a decision.”
“So, you chose to go back to being friends,” Frank fills in, and feels Mel nod. “Mel, you could’ve—it’s just me. You could’ve told me how you felt.”
“I worried I would be taking advantage of you,” Mel confesses in a small voice, and she slips a leg between his, seeking comfort in the contact, in his weight. “I know the statistics, and I know you’re still recovering. You’re barely clean. I wasn’t going to be the reason you relapsed.”
“You didn’t say no when I offered to come with you,” Frank points out gently. “Isn’t that a risk?”
“It was selfish,” Mel agrees. She traces his trachea, his carotid artery where it twists up under his jaw. His pulse thuds strong and sure against her fingertip. “I shouldn’t have—I should’ve talked to you instead of making the decision for you. I’m sorry. I was scared.”
“My recovery isn’t your responsibility, and I wouldn’t ever put it on you,” Frank says carefully. He presses his fingers into the muscles lining her spine, working out a knot he feels there. “I’m human, okay? I fucked up. Majorly, more than once. It’s okay to make mistakes, but you gotta’ talk to me.”
“I know,” Mel says into his throat, barely above a whisper.
“Yolanda knows, too. So do Cass and Abby. You know what they all said to me?” Frank says, and Mel shakes her head. “They told me to go for it. Dom, especially, kicked my ass into gear.”
“Does everybody at work know?” Mel asks, a little huffy, and Frank rumbles a laugh. “I’m happy, though. I’m glad they did. I’m not sure I would have…” Mel trails off, searching for the words. “If I didn’t know how you felt, it’s unlikely we would be here.”
“Talk to me next time, okay?” Frank encourages gently, and Mel presses her forehead into his sternum, nodding. “And the next time, and the next. I’m with you, sweetheart.”
Mel curls up nearer to him, like she could crawl into his chest if she could only get close enough, and Frank presses a kiss into her hair, breathing deep.
All of their problems don’t go away at once, because the world doesn’t work like that. Evie smiles at them smugly when they all go out for breakfast the next morning, Dom sending Frank a surreptitious wink across the table at Frank’s arm over the back of Mel’s chair. Mel drives them back, maintaining the speed limit the entire time, and Frank dozes when he can, his back protesting the position of the chair regardless of where he puts it. She picks up Becca, who glares at Frank suspiciously in the front seat, still not fully on board with his sudden presence in their life. He drops them both off, brushing a kiss to Mel’s cheek, hyperaware of Becca staring at them through the front window.
Cassie is all over him with questions as soon as he gets to her place, and he mostly shoos her off with complaints of being tired and his back hurting, her blue eyes sharp as a knife on him as he moves through the house. She mostly leaves him alone for the afternoon, and when he finally works up the nerve to tell him over dinner, she bursts into delighted, whooping laughter, shoving him so hard he nearly falls out of the chair.
The night before he’s due to return to PTMC, he’s invited out to the park a select few of his coworkers unwind at, a cooler of beer pushed up to a bench. Mohan and Mateo are both there, Abbot sitting between them. Cassie and Garcia linger there too, plus the trio that started on that first day those long two months ago. Javadi eyes him a little warily, unsure what the atmosphere around him is, but the rest are welcoming, Yolanda grabbing him into an unexpectedly strong hug. Mel hovers by her side, with a small, happy smile on her face, only for him.
Abby hands him an envelope, advises Frank pointedly that it’s from Robby; when Frank turns slightly away from the group, his fingers shaking, and tears it open, there’s a few forms inside. There’s a note from Robby, too, the familiar chicken scratch forming a lump in his throat.
Get these filed sooner rather than later, his note reads, and Frank checks the forms—a packet for disclosing a relationship to HR, and liability notices promising they won’t sue the company if it goes south. It isn’t forgiveness, and it isn’t acceptance, but it is—something. A step forward, maybe. Mel places her hand gently at his back, tells him she already filled hers out and they can drop them off together.
It’s a long path forward to returning to the Emergency Department, but he has Mel, and he has Cassie and Yolanda, Cassie’s smile warm when he rejoins the group and Garcia poking fun at him like he never disappeared for two months. Mohan even attempts a joke, still finding her place in the group, and Santos unexpectedly threatens bodily harm to anybody who gives Frank trouble which is—somewhat frightening, but causes an embarrassing itch behind his eyes, like he’s close to crying.
And every long journey starts with a single step.