Better Than Bleeding Out
Frank Woods x fem!reader
miscommunication, fluff.
Word Count: 2.4k
CW: None.
Summary: Frank can be a little slow on the uptake. It’s best to spell things out for him.
Disclaimer: PowerPoint wasn't invented until 1987, but I do not care.
The safe house was quiet now. Dust filtered through the cracked blinds, the setting sun cast lazy shadows across the floor. You were laid out on your back with your blood-soaked shirt rolled up your torso. Every sharp bite of pain was a chilling reminder of just how close that last mission had been.
“Stop moving, you big baby.”
Frank Woods’s voice was rough, a gravelly growl laced with exasperation. He crouched beside you, needle in one hand, gauze in the other.
His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, fingers stained with your blood, and yet somehow, he still managed to look like the personification of steely grit and unshakable confidence.
“Maybe next time, don’t get shot.”
You hissed as the alcohol stung your open wound. “Real comforting, Woods.”
Frank Woods was a legend: A hardened soldier with a mouth to rival any sailor’s and all the charm of a rattlesnake.
He was fearless, loyal, dangerous, and also the absolute worst person to have as your stand-in medic.
Not because he was bad at it. Far from it. He’d stitched up more bullet wounds on himself and others than he could count.
But he his bedside manner was horrendous.
You clenched your jaw as the freshly cleaned bullet wound in your side began bleeding again.
Frank knelt beside you like he’d done this with you before.
Probably because he had.
“Third time we’ve worked together, right?” you muttered, trying to distract yourself from the sting.
“And third time you’ve been shot,” Frank commented, glancing up long enough to raise a brow.
“Second time,” you argued.
“Nope. Third. You're forgetting Belarus. Trust me, I remember all the blood I’ve had to mop up off you, CIA.” He smirked. “You have a habit of catching bullets like it’s your job.”
“Shut up,” you grumbled, chuckling in spite of yourself. You immediately regretted it, wincing in pain. “God, don’t make me laugh.”
“I wasn’t trying to. You did that your damn self.” Frank leaned closer, stitching with practiced precision.
You were holed up in the old safe house somewhere at the edge of Berlin. Broken crates and empty ammo boxes littered the space, the flickering overhead light doing little to provide a cozy atmosphere.
The mission had gone sideways and you’d been caught in the crossfire. Again.
Frank's hands were rough, the pads of his fingers calloused, but they moved with efficiency.
You winced and groaned as he dabbed more antiseptic onto the wound. “Shut up, would ya?” He muttered, “It’s not like you’re getting open-heart surgery.”
“Feels like it,” you huffed under your breath, but your complaint died in your throat the moment the needle touched skin. You snapped your mouth shut and tried not to flinch.
“Just stay still. Don’t make me botch it or you’ll have a jacked-up scar forever.”
You let out a dry, pained laugh. “Ow.”
You gave him a narrow-eyed glare, but he only smirked wider, clearly pleased with himself. He was obviously enjoying this way too much.
For a few minutes, Frank worked in silence, the only sound in the room was Mason and Adler talking quietly in the corner and your sharp breaths hissing through gritted teeth.
“Almost done.” Frank tugged the needle tightly.
You tensed and balled up your fists. “Woods.”
“What? I said almost! Jeez, you’re such a crybaby.” His tone was clipped, irritated, but underneath it was clear amusement.
You glared up at him, but even in the annoyance and pain, you couldn’t quite hide from the warmth you felt in your chest. He had that effect on you. Maddening, infuriating, but somehow comforting.
“There,” he announced. “All done. You’re damn lucky it was only a flesh wound.”
“Fuck,” you groaned, wincing as you propped yourself up on your elbows, still trying to catch your breath. “Thanks...”
He grumbled as he wiped his hands clean on an old rag. “Relax, princess. You’ll live.”
Then, surprisingly, his voice softened, just a little. “Hey, don’t mention it, alright? Just try not to get shot again, will ya? I’d rather not spend my free time stitching up your sorry ass.”
You gave him a mock salute. “Won’t happen again, Sergeant.”
Frank shot you a look, seemingly annoyed, but the amusement in his eyes betrayed him. “Cute,” he muttered under his breath.
Your cheeks flushed despite yourself as you slowly leaned over, inspecting his work. The stitches were neat, clean, efficient.
Frank gave your forehead a knock with one knuckle. “Damn right it won’t happen again. You keep making me play medic, I’m charging you.”
You huffed a laugh and looked up at him, catching him already looking at you.
“It’s not a masterpiece,” he said, nodding toward the stitches, “but it’ll hold.”
You brushed your hair back. “Better than bleeding out.”
Frank watched you for a second longer than necessary, something ambiguous flickering behind his eyes.
"Maybe you should get me a punch card," you mused. "Five sets of stitches and the sixth one's free?"
Frank snorted suddenly. He plopped down beside you and scrubbed a hand over the back of his head, muscles shifting underneath his shirt. “You do have a knack for getting yourself in trouble, don’t you?”
You shrugged. “Hey, the CIA doesn’t pay me to do the shooting. That’s your job.”
Frank chuckled. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re the brains, I’m the brawn. You sit in your cushy office, pushing paper, and I go out and do all the dirty work. Typical intelligence officer.”
“You make it sound like I’ve got it easy.”
“You do have it easy,” he retorted.
You gave him a playful glare. “Sure, if that’s how you want to see it.”
He raised both eyebrows. “That is how I see it, smart ass. You’re buried in files and maps while I’m—”
“Getting shot?” You finished, gesturing to your own bullet wound which stood in direct opposition to the point he was trying to make.
Frank wrinkled his nose. “Eh. Whatever.”
You laughed, the tension ebbing from your body. It felt good, the easy banter, the warmth that had nothing to do with the summer air.
“Well, we’ve got the intel we need. I imagine we’ll be going home soon.”
Frank let out a heavy sigh. “Yeah. Back to HQ. Can’t wait for the briefings, reports, paperwork up to my eyeballs… ” His voice dripped with sarcasm.
You watched him from the corner of your eye, heart thudding in your chest. Now or never, you told yourself.
You cleared your throat and forced the words out of your mouth before you could second guess yourself. “Maybe we could find time for a drink in there somewhere?”
Your voice was too strained, too tight, like you were holding your breath.
Frank blinked at you. A flicker of something passed through his eyes, but it was gone before you could name it.
“A drink, huh?” he said, lips quirking up. “Sounds like someone’s itching to get drunk and forget about their brush with death.”
The disappointment hit you like a brick. Either he thought you were joking, or he was trying to let you down easy.
You smiled anyway, trying to laugh off the sting.
“Yeah… that’s it.”
Frank missed the shift in your expression — or pretended to. “Alright then,” he said as he stood up and stretched. “Drinks it is. After the paperwork. We’ll make Mason be the designated driver. It'll piss him off so bad.”
"Sounds good." You smiled, a little too forced, and rose to your feet. “Sure. Excuse me.”
You turned and made your way across the safe house. The heavy door creaked behind you, as you slipped outside into the hazy evening light.
You dug a cigarette out of your jacket and jammed it between your lips, clicking your lighter furiously.
It was empty.
“Fuck,” you muttered, flicking it again and again. You dragged a hand through your hair, frustration weighing your shoulders down.
God, you felt stupid.
You’d put yourself out there and got shot down immediately. At least Frank had respected you enough not to humiliate you when he did so.
Inside, Mason wandered over to Frank and let out a long, low whistle. “Wow. You are dense.”
Frank looked up, frowning. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Seriously?" Mason jerked his head toward the door. “That woman just asked you out on a date.”
Frank blinked. “She did what? Get the hell outta here.”
Mason snorted as if he couldn’t believe that even Frank Woods could be so oblivious. “You’re kidding me.”
“She just wanted to blow off steam,” Frank said, dismissively waving a hand. “We’ve been working overtime for months, and she—”
“Look again, pal.”
Frank turned toward the window and paused.
You were standing just outside, still in view of the window, wrestling with your useless lighter.
Then he saw it.
The embarrassment. The disappointment. The way you bit your lip, tilted your head down, and tried to look like you didn't care.
You muttered something under your breath and ran your hand through your hair, face flushed, and eyes fixed downward towards the ground.
Suddenly, it clicked.
“Goddammit,” he muttered. “You're right.”
Mason smirked. “Yep. You missed the tee up, my friend. I could feel her disappointment from across the room. I mean, imagine getting rejected by you of all people.”
Frank turned his glare on him. “Hey,” he growled. “I’m a goddamn catch, thank you very much.”
Mason snorted. “Sure, buddy.”
Frank rolled his eyes and turned back toward the window. You were still trying to light that cigarette.
His eyes lingered on you... the set of your jaw, the slight scrunch in your brows, the way you looked like you could melt someone’s face off with the fury in your eyes. You looked good, even pissed off. Especially pissed off.
He rubbed the back of his neck, still watching you.
“Damn,” he mumbled. “I really fucked that up.”
He hesitated for a moment before he growled, “Ah hell.”
He made his way towards the door.
“Go get her, Romeo,” Mason called.
Frank promptly threw his hand up, showing Mason his middle finger.
Outside, the sun had dipped low, casting long, dark shadows across the cracked concrete. You stood just off to the side of the building, leaning against the wall, your cigarette hanging between your lips and a frustrated scowl on your face. You held your useless lighter in one hand, fiddling with it absentmindedly.
The heavy door squeaked open and then shut, but you didn't look up.
Frank cleared his throat as he approached. “Need a light?”
He presented a worn silver Zippo, the surface scratched from years of use.
You eyed the lighter, then Frank, before you sighed. You pocketed your useless one and leaned in, holding the cigarette steady between your lips.
He flicked the lighter open with a soft chik, the flame dancing to life. You leaned in a little further, shielding the breeze with your hand, and lit your cigarette. Frank followed suit, lighting one of his own.
The two of you stood in silence for a moment, shoulders close but not touching, twin trails of smoke curling into the air.
You took a long drag, exhaled slowly, and murmured without looking at him, “So what, here to lecture me again?”
“Nah,” Frank said lazily around his cigarette. “Here to unfuck a misunderstanding.”
You blinked and turned your head, surprised. He took another drag, the end his cigarette glowing orange in the low light.
“You weren’t just talkin’ about blowing off steam back there,” he said, eyes still fixed ahead. “You were asking me out.”
You hesitated. “…Yeah.”
Frank exhaled a plume of smoke, watching it dissipate in the night. “I didn’t get it. Not right away. That one’s on me.”
You shrugged like it didn’t matter, but your grip on the cigarette tightened. “It’s fine. It was unprofessional of me."
Frank shook his head. “That's not it,” he said, voice low. “Look, I’ve been in this shit a long time. You stop noticing when someone’s looking at you like that. You don’t let yourself notice. Makes things easier, if I'm honest.”
You said nothing, but watched him quietly, your cigarette burning between your fingers, forgotten.
Frank shifted, turning slightly to face you, his gaze softening. “But I noticed tonight. Eventually.”
You got a good look at him, maybe for the first time, because there was something different in his eyes now. Something a little raw... a little less guarded.
“But it's a no to that drink,” he said, bluntly.
“Oh.” You pursed your lips, and something twisted tightly in your gut. “I understand—”
“I’d like to take you to dinner instead.”
Your brows shot up. A smile slowly tugged at your lips. “Yeah?”
Frank took another drag, then tipped his head toward you, a crooked grin breaking out on his face.
“Yeah,” he said. “We’ll go someplace nice, someplace quiet. I’ll even wear a shirt with buttons.”
You took a slow pull from your cigarette and tilted your head. “You clean up nice, Woods?”
He gave you a sideways look. “Only one way to find out.”
You straightened up and snubbed out your cigarette on the brick wall. “You know, you’ve got a real strange way of flirting.”
Frank grinned. “Flirting? This is me being positively romantic.”
You rolled your eyes, but you blushed anyway.
Frank flicked ash off the end of his cigarette and stepped in a little closer. “For what it’s worth… I think I missed it earlier because I didn’t think someone like you would bother with someone like me.”
A frown pulled at your lips. “Someone like you?”
He shrugged. “Mean. Old. Smokes too much. Probably drinks too much.”
You looked at him narrowing your eyes slightly and felt that familiar warmth rise in your chest again. “Frank?”
“Huh?”
“Shut up.”
You wrapped your hand around his and pulled it towards you. You took a long drag from his cigarette before letting go and leaning back against the wall, exhaling a trail of smoke. You tilted your head lazily.
Frank raised a brow, lips twitching, an enamored gleam in his eye. “Oh, now you’re flirting.”
You flashed him a wicked little smirk. “Damn right, I am.”
He smiled. “Well then.”
“What?”
He leaned in just enough for his shoulder to brush against yours. “Guess I’ll have to make it up to you. For being a dumbass earlier.”
“You really will.”
Frank took a final drag and dropped the cigarette, crushing it beneath his boot. “Alright. And next time, princess? Don’t be subtle. Tell me what you want. I like direct.”
You felt something in your chest flutter. You nodded gently, a little dip of your chin. “Next time, I'll be sure to set up a PowerPoint.”
Frank snorted and rolled his eyes. “Fuckin’ CIA.”
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