Archive of Our Own ^beta

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A halt in her tracks, Mel looks down, lifting her leg slightly to find a leaf underneath her shoe. A sharp, crisp sound it made from her step, crumbled in pieces, dried from the core, curled up at the edges. Shades of brown and orange mix. Autumn’s finally here.

Mel’s eyes wander from the concrete, a picture of fallen leaves all over. It is scattered through the graveled ground, nearly covering the grey. It is by the grass and dirt, colors blending into the familiar signs of fall.

Her warm breath of exhale is visible as it floats into the air. The breeze making it fly, carrying it all over the city. Another day ahead of her.

Mel overviews the building of the trauma center. A couple more steps and she’s there. A chilly gust passes by, scrunching the hands inside her pockets, her shoulders quiver from the cold. She’s going to need to layer up more soon.

Mel feels the draft stop when a shadow of a familiar figure grazes her sight, entering the doors of the building. Mel resumes her walk, the eagerness in her chest wanting to follow, hurriedly.

There, she remembers, when seasons gradually shift, when flowers spring and wither, when colors vary. A tell of time from the wind. The leaves that have blossomed and shriveled, ones that her eyes meet as they fall from the branches into the ground, ones that crunch as they echo her steps.

Although there was nothing gradual or slow once Mel King started at PTMC, she didn’t even feel the seasons changing, just immediately struck and fallen.

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When rain spent the night, it left its traces all over the town. The unpredictable weather was the conversation starter that month, though the sun continued its beginnings of the day at 6 in the morning. A vast fog loomed over the streets, grey seeping into the air, the dew rolled down the windows.

The cap felt tight in his head, like all Frank’s running thoughts were keen to escape. His hand shuffled through the crinkled litter inside the pocket of his jacket, a variety of wraps from cough drops, lollipops, and nicotine gum.

His phone dinged, a notification that he read:

Mel: Here :)

Frank grabbed the strap of his backpack, letting it loosely hang on his shoulder. Sound of keys dangled as he locked his front door. He turns to see the car, waiting with the familiar low hum of the engine in the background. The windows blurred from the hazy morning, but he could see Mel’s figure, her head turned, looking at him.

Frank briefly looks through the surroundings, where small, murky puddles formed overnight. The ones that he would step on so hastily. Carelessness that would stain his sneakers from the splash, a mess splattering everywhere. He sees the fog from afar as if it were closing in on him, an ominous feeling creeping up. It lurks in the corners, following him, both clouding the city and his mind.

A click sounds from the handle as he opens the car door, a blast of warm air, dissipating the cold and opaque haze around him.

“Good morning,” Mel smiles. Now everything is clear.

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Loss, a word adjunct in her vocabulary, sits in the back of her mind. It slithers in the grooves of her brain, in the corners of her eye, finding her when it’s too dark, too bright, too loud, too quiet. Loss is a feeling that Mel knew all too well.

When her hands fail to reach another, fingertips longing for a feel she never had, a warmth she so desires to even burn her. Loss was a price for never belonging within the spaces Mel has been. It also resides in her sighs, the exhales she gives in to Becca, ones she ever so yielded, everything, taking a piece of her each time. It dwells thinking about her parents, gone along with the hole they dug out of her heart.

Loss is a friend. It follows Mel, settled in the void in her chest. It is her company, for no one else is.

Yet, somehow, it waned.

When she lifted her chin to meet his gaze, blues that easily find her even across the room. When Frank calls her name, his lips lightly pressed together, slipping the word out of his mouth almost like routine. A paradise that opened its gates, for once, within grasp. A haunting feeling to finally have something, someone.

A fleeting moment flew by, forgetting what loss meant, until Frank’s absence haunted her.

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It was sweet. The sides of their bodies squished against one another as they shared a black umbrella. Frank held the crook of the handle tight, arm snaked around her shoulders, centering her underneath the canopy. His body slightly bent, a stance of reassurance, unnerved while his side exposed and drenched from the downpour.

Their tracks would make a splashing sound. The drops of rain bounce off the nylon curve, falling into the ripples. They would chuckle, their shoes wet, the moist between the soles of their feet is felt by the second. Hems darkened from the soak; it’s still a long way home.

Mel could only look, from afar, a view that isn’t of her.

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“Yeah, yeah, I’m a doctor, remember?” Frank chuckled with a gruff. His voice was rough early in the morning. Dana, on the other end of the phone, telling him off with her stern mom-voice.

Frank hung up the call, the phone sliding off the crook of his neck as he lay on the bed. Really, there was no pounding headache that water and a Tylenol couldn’t fix. He felt his blinks, like the world had moved more slowly today. Frank shut his lids, letting the moment play in his head.

“Doctor King,” he said, finding Mel still, underneath the awnings. Her lips pressed, like gnawing on the insides of, adding to the frown plastered on her face.

“No umbrella?” Frank added, louder this time, to offset the noise of the heavy downpour.

Mel nodded, a glint of ease in her eyes from the way Frank noticed. “I guess the weatherman makes mistakes too,” she replied.

Frank smiled at the wit; his hands extended with a folded umbrella, to which Mel looked at him with widened eyes. Her hands waved with refusal immediately, “Oh, I’m good, Doctor Langdon,” her tone laced with frantic. “I think the rain will stop anytime soon.”

“You said it yourself, the weatherman makes mistakes too,” Frank smirked, continued, “I have another one in my locker.” Skins brushed briefly as Mel accepted the offer. The distance between shifted, now closer.

His temperature rising, cheeks feverish, and Frank isn’t one to get sick easily.

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Mel didn’t notice it until later — the gold wedding band. Her eyes drifted along the strands of his arm hair, darted down to the veins of his hands. The fair skin and that shining ring, seemingly so striking, it almost screams at her face. Robby’s voice mumbled in the background as the staff huddled.

“Mel?” Frank whispers beside her.

Her eyes quickly returned the look, “Hm?” a soft reply.

“Lunch?” he asks.

“Sure,” Mel whispers back.

Calling it absurd wouldn’t just cut it from the way Frank’s eyes would flicker with curiosity; her tone changes, the fidgeting fingers, even the tip of her nose that gets red easily from the cold breeze, or when she sheds a tear — everything that is of her.

A thorn that pricks her throat each time she gives in, but Mel was so enamored too. She gazes at the strand that perfectly falls on top of his forehead and the corners of his blue irises when he’s looking away. Mel could only wonder if the God above created such a creature to torment her, a being of temptation urging her to commit all sins.

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“Hey, Doctor King,” Frank greeted. A hint of restraint in his voice, low, like the formal tone he uses with patients. Mel turned to him, a puzzled look, one that Frank acknowledged.

“Mel,” he repeated, now it sounded casual. Mel could only snicker.

“Doctor Langdon,” she replied with a smile, reaching her cheeks.

Frank cleared his throat, “What do we have today?”

It was a show to put on, pretending, keeping things professional, or at least they tried. They weren’t the great pretenders, especially Frank. Mel remembered when Samira pulled her into the break room one time, “What’s up with you and Langdon?”  in her hushed voice, riveted at how Frank orbited around Mel, like the moon and its earth pulling on each other.

“Please,”  Mel pleaded, an attempt to cover the conspicuous even when there’s no cloud that could engulf the moon and its light. Sure, it was easier to keep their relationship overtly in the workplace, but seeing Frank hold himself back was entertainment. Frank didn’t need to know, even when it drove him to insanity, feeling a graze of his touch to hers. Mel took part in the pleasure of it all, specifically the aftermath of each shift, when he’d shower her with kisses under his hold now uncontrolled.

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The door swung open; hinges squeaked from the ajar. The space only lit by a wall lantern, blooming a warm tone reflected on the concrete. Frank stood near the edge of the rooftop, leaned against the cold rails, cigarette that hung between his fingertips.

“Doctor Langdon?” Mel called.

Frank turned to look at her briefly before putting the cigarette out. Mel gazed at the stomped stick on the ground. “Mel. What brings you here?” Frank said, now getting a better look at the resident. Her hair unraveled; the ends curled loosely with waves from the braid.

“I was looking for you,” Mel replied, walking closer beside Frank. “Do you always go here?” There was a softness in her tone, full of curiosity. “I noticed you’ve been heading here after shift,” she added.

Frank chuckled lightly at her honest comment, “Keeping an eye on me?”

“N-no, I mean—”

“I’m just messing with you, King,” Frank snickered before turning towards the sight of tall buildings with lights that glowed under the night sky. “I like it up here. It’s like being in a different world.”

Everything atop was still. A view that overlooked the lives being lived. Honking cars and sirens that course through the streets below. An evening breeze passed by, hushing the sounds of the city, swaying Mel’s hair all over her face. Frank turned, tucking some pieces behind her ear. She could smell the residue of smoke on his fingers.

Mel smiled, “I see what you mean.”

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The warmth of the indentation left on the wrinkled sheets. Some golden strands on their pillowcase. The fleece blanket that smelled of the new detergent. The air was dry and chilly, tingling at the end of their fingertips. Cracked lips, one bite and the skin would tug, the flesh underneath red and hot. Mel parted her hair, brushing the damped lengths, sectioning her usual braids as her fingers moved in motion, in rhythm, in memory. She grazed at the finished ends, perfectly neatly tied, resting at her right shoulder. 

A small, off-white packaging of chapstick caught her eye on the table, the carton of the 2-pack torn at the edges, leaving a stick that Mel grabs. The lid makes a popping sound as she pulls. She sniffs a hint of vanilla, something sweet, and mint laced in it. It felt like cream on her lips, soothing the chapped lines and leaving an opaque mark on the rim of the mug she drank from. 

“Ready to go?” Frank asks as he blows out air. His hair tucked into a baseball cap, kept from the burden of putting further effort into it. 

“Uh-huh,” Mel replies, absentmindedly, rummaging through her bag, checking off a list inside her head. She lifts her gaze to see him eyeing her.

“Cold?” Frank comments.

“Freezing,” Mel responds, a shudder in her shoulders. Frank chuckles, briefly noticing a shine in her lips. A different glint from the one when she uses her tongue to wet them, he notes in his mind. 

His thumb moves instinctively, caressing the balm on Mel’s lips; the touch is velvet. A quick sweep that he brings to his mouth, “Hm,” humming at tasting the flavor. 

Mel swallows at the swift of his actions, “Becca got us some chapsticks. Pretty good, huh?” 

Frank pulls Mel in his arms, crashing their lips together, the fragrant salve immediately replaced with the taste of their own. “We’ll be late, Frank,” Mel breathily says, in between the kisses. 

Frank counters with cupping her jaw, replying with a flick of his tongue in her mouth, savoring the sweetness greater than the balm.