You’re on your feet the second the patient is rolled in, already asking for the trauma report while tugging on your gloves.

“Female, mid-fifties. Found at home vomiting large amounts of blood. No known medical history on file. GCS fifteen. BP’s been hovering at ninety over sixty, heart rate 118. Pale. No meds at the scene,” the EMT rattles off as she’s wheeled into trauma room two. “Two 18-gauge IVs, one in each arm. No fluids en route. Estimated blood loss: maybe 500 cc.”

She’s unstable. Losing blood. That pressure’s tanking and you need to transfuse. So you speak on instinct, already ordering a “type and cross for 2 units PRBCs and to page blood bank. Hang one as soon as it’s—“

“No,” Robby cuts in, his gloves snapping into place as he steps beside you. “We’re not transfusing. Not yet.”

Your brow furrows. You tell him “she’s hypotensive, vomiting blood, pale—unstable.”

He checks the monitor, then the patient “BP’s borderline, not crashing. She’s alert. GCS fifteen. We’ve got time,” he says, stepping past you. “Fluids first. Labs first. We transfuse when the numbers tell us to.”

You feel the flush creep up your neck as the staff’s eyes land on you. The interns go quiet, notepads in hand, scribbling away while the monitor beeps mockingly in the background. Still, you try again. “With active bleeding—”

He ignores you. “Give her a liter of LR, pressure bag it,” he tells the nearest intern. “Get an H&H, type and cross, yes—but hold on the blood.” He turns to you. “This isn’t a guesswork clinic.”

And then, “If you’ve got time to argue, you’re not moving fast enough.”

Finally, the kicker: 
“Take twenty. And get Langdon.”

You could laugh, honestly. You don’t bother arguing. Clearly, you’re not wanted in that room.

Frank’s already staring at you when you step out. He definitely heard it. You don’t have the patience for whatever smug comment he’s dying to make, so you just mutter that Robby’s asking for him before heading for the lounge.

You and Frank have never really gotten along. Not that you care to, either. The way he walks around like every word he says is scripture makes your skin crawl. That cocky, bulletproof confidence. Like the idea of being wrong doesn’t even occur to him.

Spoiler: he is wrong. Often. And you’re usually the one to catch it. Maybe that’s why he can’t stand you either.

But of course, as Robby likes to remind you, biases don’t belong in the ER. You do try to let it go, every shift. Frank’s not worth it anyway. But God, it grates your soul when that smug little smile appears after you get corrected.

Especially if he’s the one to catch it. You swear his eyes light up at the chance.

Twenty minutes later, you’ve mostly regrouped. You sit at the desk, reviewing charts, checking labs, trying to just do your damn job. But naturally, Frank Langdon is allergic to silence.

You barely get five minutes before he’s hovering—elbows on the counter, peering down at you. You don’t even need to look. You already know the face he’s making.

“Didn’t know Robby was handing out performance reviews mid-trauma now,” he says, eyes scanning the ER before they land back on you. His brows pinch slightly as he studies you, gaze narrowing.

And then… something strange.

When you do look at him, you catch it. That flicker. Concern. It’s quick, almost buried. But it’s there. Like the fact that you didn’t fire back instantly was enough to throw him off.

“What happened in there?” he finally asks. Not nosy. Not smug. Not gossiping. Just him trying to check if you’re okay without letting you know he cares too much.