Work Text:
The good thing about working in such a chaotic environment is that no one notices when you’ve skipped meals. Langdon’s always eaten like a bird, was always teased for it by family and friends. He prefers quick snacks to big meals, and that’s how it’s always been. That’s why he works so well in the Pitt. He shoves a protein bar in his scrub pocket, knowing full well he won’t eat it later. But it makes him feel like his old self, the one before the benzos, when he pretends he still has an appetite.
It was the nausea and vomiting from the withdrawals that started it, Langdon was sure of it. Now, whenever he eats, it feels like there’s a foreign object sitting in his stomach, waiting patiently to be expelled.
He feels like an imposter in his own body, swallowing down thick paste that he knows will come right back up, whether he wants it to or not. The back of his throat burns, his voice now hoarse and nasally. He pops a cough drop while he squints with knitted brows at the charts on the computer, gloved fingers on the mouse, but it all blurs together.
*
On a sunless, cold day, Langdon messes up more than he can count. Confusing patient prescriptions and symptoms, forgetting to log things. He eats a handful of trail mix, thinking it’ll give him the strength he needs to get through the shift, but it only gets worse. His head is pounding, and the lights are too bright in the tiny hospital room. The dehydration is starting to get to him, it seems.
When the dizziness becomes disorienting, and the room starts to spin, he tells the others he needs to take a breather. They wave him off, telling him they got this. He can’t prove it, but he feels like everyone’s been treating him more delicately since he got back from his inpatient program. He doesn’t really blame them. He’s different. Looks different too, or so he’s been told.
*
Mel catches him in the hallway, but Robby doesn’t stop for her. She asks him about Langdon, tells him about how off he’s been recently. She stumbles over her words multiple times, trying to get to the point, until she huffs and finally says:
“You don’t think he’s relapsed, do you?” She asks, wide eyed and frazzled, like she’s said something wrong.
“Not possible.” Robby says, still moving. She speed walks to catch up to him, short and awkward.
“I just- um- he’s lost a lot of weight, and I’m concerned-“
Robby puts his hand up and interrupts her. “He gets tested every week at random. He’s been clean for months now. Nothing to worry about.” He reassures.
He was going to add some words of wisdom, talk about how recovery is hard and not linear or pretty and there are ups and downs, but he doesn’t have the energy today, so he leaves it at that.
“Okay. Of course.”
*
Thank god for Dana. Robby doesn’t know where they’d be without her. She seems to be the only voice of reason on the floor, these days. He remembers the feeling of his stomach sinking when she told him she was thinking of quitting. Thank god she changed her mind. She tells him they’ve all been through the wringer, all have their inner battles, and it would be selfish to leave everyone behind just because of that Driscoll guy.
“And make sure Langdon eats somethin’, okay?” Dana says softly after their talk, hand on his shoulder. He sighs. Nods.
*
Langdon catches a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror at 6:30 a.m. the next week, coming in a bit early for his shift. He turns to the side and holds his arm out. Tests the waistband of his pants. He makes a mental note to get a smaller pair of scrubs. He doesn’t really recognize the person looking back. He heads to his locker and places everything inside, lunch absent. He’s stopped packing them a while ago.
*
Santos is too observant for her own good.
“I know I’ve done enough damage to his reputation but I couldn’t help but notice-“ she stops suddenly, like Robby will interrupt her, but he doesn’t. Just waits for what he knows is coming, arms crossed.
“The two red knuckles on Langdon’s right hand? Could be from self-induced vomiting, which would explain the sudden drop in weight. His teeth are also looking pretty yellow, possibly from bile, and his-“
“Yeah, I know the signs of bulimia, Santos. Thanks.” Robby snaps, brushes a hand through his hair and exhales. Winces at himself when he realizes how combative he sounds. She’s just a kid, after all. She doesn’t actually mean to come off as arrogant, as much as Langdon tried to convince him otherwise when he was caught red handed months ago.
Santos raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. She’s feisty, but he’s one of the few people she doesn’t talk back to. Today, Robby’s thankful for it.
*
The next week, Langdon eats a sandwich from the cafeteria silently under Robby’s watchful eye, pale fingers trembling as he eats without tasting, swallows mechanically without fully chewing. Makes eye contact with Robby as if to say “see? I eat.”
Langdon’s hands never used to shake. They can’t, in an occupation like this. Even when he first came to the Pitt years ago, a nervous wreck like all of the other students, he never wavered. It was like all of his jitters went away when tools were in his hands, no matter how anxious he was before. Robby always found that admirable. Now, the man in front of him can barely keep his forks steady.
He uses the opportunity to study Langdon’s face. His lips are puffy, his face is pale and sweaty, and his eyes are swollen and red. Whether that’s from tears in the supply closet or throwing up in the toilet, it’s anyone’s guess. It’s getting harder and harder to ignore the way his sharp collarbones peak out of the now-loose collar of his scrubs, the angularity of his shoulders. Something in Robby’s chest twists and contorts.
Anyone who walks in on their strange lunch date is smart enough not to comment at the sight.
The food churns in Langdon’s gut, with all of its oily fat and processed meat. The rush of nutrients is making him slightly dizzy. His body wants to reject it. Langdon’s not worried. It’s just gonna come back up later anyway, he thinks, smiles slightly. He’s almost excited, in a sick way. At least he knows he’s sick. Some people don’t. He runs his tongue over his teeth, eagerly consuming what’s been put in front of him by Robby so he can get out of there.
But Robby finds him before he can even touch the handle of the bathroom door, yanking him back with a firm hand on his upper arm while the other stumbles clumsily. His fingers could probably enclose around Langdons bicep, at this point. Not really, but almost. Could be something to work towards in the future, Langdon thinks distantly.
“Ah ah. What do you think you’re doing, Dr. Langdon?”
“Gonna use the bathroom. Do I have permission?” He replies lowly, irritated.
“I’ll be waiting outside the door. Hope I don’t hear any retching in there.” Robby says, pats his back like how a dad would. Langdon sucks his cheek so he doesn’t say anything he’ll regret, jaw clenched, and pushes past him.
A listener isn’t a problem for Langdon. He’s learned how to puke quietly, and the Pitt is loud this time of day. Babies screaming, moniters beeping, staff and patients yelling. Robby doesn’t hear a thing as Langdon gets on his bruised knees, shoves two fingers down his throat and spills everything.
But Robby is far from stupid, and when Langdon comes back sweaty, with watery eyes and the scent of mint hardly covering acid, he just sighs. Langdon raises his eyebrows, almost challenging the older to say something. Robby just walks away.
*
Mel is eyeing him worriedly, like everyone has been these past few months. It’s endless. Makes him grit his teeth. She makes desperate eye contact with Robby, wordlessly gesturing to Langdon’s frail hands, which are sloppy and shaky with every stitch.
They get into a heated argument in the hallway by the lockers, yet again.
“When it’s affecting your work, it is my business, actually!” Robby yells, slamming the locker for impact. Langdon doesn’t flinch this time, but he’s hunched inward. His ears still burn at the feeling of multiple pairs of eyes on him, though. You’d think he’d be used to it by now.
“Take a break, Dr. Langdon.”
Surprisingly, he goes without comment.
*
At 3 p.m. McKay slides Langdon a muffin, winks. He tries not to roll his eyes. He nods once at her instead, making awkward eye contact. Starts peeling the paper wrapper as if he’s going to eat it, then stops when she walks away.
Not wanting to waste food, he ends up putting it on a napkin and giving it to Whitaker, who just thanks him confusedly in that mousy way of his.
*
Now, the bracelet his kid made him slides halfway down his forearm, instead of resting at the wrist. Langdon finds this especially annoying during surgeries, so he cuts it quickly when he has a free minute and ties the worn out elastic so it’s tighter, fingers quick and practiced. He smiles inwardly at the change, at the progress he’s making.
*
When the emptiness in his body becomes unbearable, though the cravings are not quite comparable to the feeling of withdrawal, he decides it can’t wait until he gets home. He locks the break room door behind him and chokes down soggy, congealed leftovers, chugs milk and juice out of the carton and lets it run down his chin, eats what’s left of the stale pumpkin bread someone baked days ago.
He knows this isn’t normal behavior, that he looks crazy, but he’s too weak to stop it. His throat is sticky and clogged with his fifth spoonful of peanut butter, but he’s not in control. He feels it move through his arteries, thick and gooey like molasses. His stomach feels like it’s so empty it’s gonna swallow him whole. A bottomless pit.
Robby is the one that finds him in the break room after his binge, because of course he is. The fridge is still open, and wrappers are littered across the floor. Langdon, slouched against the bottom cabinets, doesn’t scurry to clean it, to hide his mess like a dog caught digging in the trash, when the door opens. He stares at nothing, seemingly out of it. Just waits for the insults as guilt festers inside him, molds him into something small and pathetic on the tile.
As Robby cautiously draws closer, he observes the traces of food covering his mouth and shirt, the rise and fall of his chest with shallow wheezes, and the flush on his face from shame.
“Hey, kiddo.” Robby says, approaching Langdon like one would an animal caught in a trap. Langdon's chest aches at the nickname. That’s what his dad used to call him. At least it distracts him from the ache in his stomach. He thinks he might burst. Robby crouches down, one of those square little alcohol pads the hospital gives away in his hand.
“We need to get you cleaned up, huh?” He says. Langdon stays silent. He doesn’t need a mirror to know he looks disgusting. Tear tracks and sauces not yet dried on his face, shirt soaked with milk and god knows what else, evidence of the thousands of calories he just consumed in ten minutes. It’s the most humiliated he’s been in his entire life. A nightmare he can’t wake up from. He should probably be taken to psych now. He won’t fight, if that’s what Robby decides for him. He’s too tired. Robby could probably just lock both of his wrists together with one hand and drag him there.
Instead, he slowly reaches for his face, giving Langdon an opportunity to flinch away. Tenderly, like he’s cleaning an open wound, Robby wipes the food off his mouth and cheeks. Langdon just lets him.
“There we go. All better.” Robby says lightly as he finishes up, like how you would say it to a child, but his eyes are sad. Everyone’s been looking at him like that, recently. Like he’s infecting them. Langdon’s lip wobbles as he stares forward. Takes all of his energy left to keep his eyes dry in front of the man. He can feel food slowly creeping up his throat, threatening to exit. He swallows it down.
“Want me to get you some new scrubs?” He asks, still using that soft voice. Langdon nods once, still staring at nothing. Why is he being so nice to him?
“Okay.” Robby’s knees crack as he gets off the floor.
No tears come out until after Robby leaves. Small miracles. He wraps his arms around his knees and rocks slightly, cold and alone again. Tries to squeeze all of the wetness out of his eyes before he’s back.
Robby comes back a few minutes later with fresh black scrubs in the closest thing to his size, lays them down next to him and rubs his shoulder. Doesn’t say a word as he exits.
He tells himself it doesn’t sting that Robby didn’t stay with him. He has patients. Some in critical condition. He’s not paid to deal with shit like this. Langdon gets back onto his feet, gait only a little off from his swollen belly. Slinks away to the bathroom. Robby eyes him from across the room, but doesn’t try to stop him. Maybe because he’s too busy with his sepsis patient, or maybe because he knows there’s no use.
No hope for someone like Langdon. A lost cause.
*
Langdon doesn’t really know what he looks like anymore, but it must not be good, because he’s called in for a wellness check with a woman he forgot the name of ages ago. She’s in an entirely different wing of the hospital, meaning he’s sluggish and out of breath by the time he reaches her office.
She puts her hand over his on the table. It’s cold. He wishes she was Kiara. Her hands would have been warm. But even Kiara wouldn’t be able to get him to talk. He doesn’t need to talk.
“Do you know why you were called in here, Francis?” She asks gently.
“I’m clean now. Ask Robby. Ask Abbot. Ask anyone. They’re all talking about me down there.” He says hurriedly, cold hands rubbing his thighs. His teeth chatter.
She just smiles sadly, her eyes creasing.
“I know you’re clean, honey.” She says. Great. Then what is he doing here in a room with salt lamps and motivational posters?
“People have been very concerned for you lately. The wellbeing of our employees is our top priority. Without you guys, this place wouldn’t run. I know that you’re aware of the resources this hospital has, and I hope you find it in yourself to reach out. We’re always here.”
She slides him a pamphlet with a picture of a teenage girl staring down at a scale on the front. He throws it in the trash right after he’s out of her sight. Clasps both hands behind his neck, exhales, and heads back down to the Pitt.
*
Langdon keeps getting smaller, and the pitying glances sent his way become more frequent and harder to bear. Hes hunched in on himself almost all of the time now, like he’s afraid he’ll unravel at any moment. He flinches at loud noises, and quiet noises, and his eyes are constantly glassy and unfocused.
In the end, when it gets too hard to just sit by and watch, they force feed him.
They ganged up on him, he thinks. Must have been conspiring behind his back. That’s what all of their whispering was. Had to be. He fights back. He’s still got some energy in him, after all. Who would have guessed? Tears and snot run down his face, boney hands grasping at the tubes being shoved up his nose. He’s crying, flailing pathetically on a bed that should only be used for a real patient. They don’t have enough beds. All Langdon does is take, take, take.
Skinny arms grab at the hands trying to help him, his eyes wide and panicked as someone above him brushes his sweaty hair out of his eyes like how a mother would. The same hand wipes his eyes and nose, too, but everything is blurry and sounds are muffled. He screams.
The parenteral nutrition IV dangles above him, taunting him. Mel has to turn her head, blink away the sting in her eyes. Robby’s face is neutral the whole time, betraying nothing as he holds Langdon down, restrains him, but his hands shake and his lip trembles.
He feels a prick somewhere on his body. Sleep overtakes him, and he feels nothing.