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“Okay, so let’s say the CT is down. Out of radiation or whatever.” Shen’s spinning around in his chair as he talks to the med student, pausing only to hold up his coffee in greeting when Abbot walks in. “What do you want to do to him?”
“Lumbar puncture,” replies the student, who gives a little wave at Abbot.
Shen scoots his chair closer to Langdon’s and gives it a little shove with his foot; Langdon, head resting atop folded arms on the desk, raises a middle finger. “Hear that, Frankie?” Shen says. “Sounds like a perfect learning opportunity for Elle.”
Voice muffled, Langdon says, “I don’t have a fucking bleed, I have a migraine.”
“Can’t say for sure, though.” Shen nudges his chair again. “C'mon—they’ve gotta learn somehow, and you did say the magic words.”
Abbot looks between Shen and his mischievous little smile, the now terrified looking student, and Langdon, still hiding against the desk. “And what magic words might those be?”
“‘Worst headache of my life,’” Shen says, and Langdon grumbles something unintelligible.
“It’s too early for this shit.” Not even bothering to take his backpack off, Abbot puts a hand on Langdon’s shoulder and squeezes. “With me.”
Langdon looks awful—he’s pale, and when he stands, he covers his eyes with a hand, peeking out just enough to follow Abbot to the first empty room he can find. Once they’re inside, he sits on the stretcher, then lies down without Abbot telling him to. It’s the quietest Abbot’s seen him in a long time.
“Now,” Abbot says, pulling up the wheeled stool to the bedside. “Are we being dramatic with this 'worst headache’ thing or do I need to worry?”
Shaking his head, Langdon squints up at him. “Just a migraine.”
“Alright.” Abbot brushes Langdon’s hair off his forehead; he can’t help but smile when Langdon hums and leans into the touch. “Been a while.”
“Maybe the weather. Or I'm coming down with something.”
“Or—hear me out—maybe you're just a tiny bit stressed out these days.” Abbot presses his palm to Langdon’s forehead—no fever, but he hadn't been expecting one; between his transition from resident to attending and the ongoing divorce process, it's a wonder that Langdon hasn't ended up with a killer migraine before now. “Alright: sumatriptan, Zofran, gram of Tylenol, ginger ale. If you still feel like shit in an hour, I’ll take your patients and you can head to my place.” When Abbot pulls his hand back, Langdon whines, a little sound in the back of his throat. “Easy, tiger, just going for my bag.”
Even stateside, Abbot’s always felt safer with a little pharmacy on his back. He’s swapped out the fentanyl and ketamine now that he’s not managing pain from blast injuries, adding back a few Viagra for just in case and Langdon’s migraine meds for times like this. (Someday, maybe, Langdon will remember to keep his own meds on him, but that’s a battle for another day.)
While Langdon takes his pills one by one, Abbot grabs a blanket from the warmer in the hall and drapes it over him. "Thanks, baby," Langdon murmurs, curling up on his side. "You're the best."
“I know.” Abbot kisses his forehead once, then again when Langdon lifts his head, chasing another. “Get some sleep,” he urges with a little laugh. “I’ll check in on you after I take report.”
Langdon nods and burrows deeper under the blanket with a wordless sound of understanding.
Abbot combs through Langdon’s hair, smiling at the little hum it earns him, then heads back to work, closing the door softly behind himself.