Frank has always been independent, sometimes a little too independent. Mason just wishes he would ask for help sometimes.
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“Frank, what the hell are you doing?”
When Mason smelled something burning, he had rushed into the kitchen as quickly as he could. A thousand different scenarios ran through his head; a tipped-over candle, the oven being left on, and Woods falling asleep with a cigarette were all possibilities.
What he hadn’t expected was to find Woods cooking.
“I’m- fuck!” Crash. “I’m making an omelet- goddammit. What does it look like I’m” —slam—”doing?”
Mason was about ready to smash his head off the nearest wall.
Everyone who knew Woods had collectively cringed when they learned he had broken his leg and would be on crutches for the entire holiday season. Woods and rest were two words that mixed about as well as oil and water—both of which were spilled all over the counter at the moment.
“Would you go sit down?” Mason sighed as he cautiously approached from behind.
Woods shooed him off with a crutch, nearly whacking him in the shin. “I’m fine, Al. I got this.”
Mason frowned at the one, two, three eggs cracked directly onto the counter and hummed. “Sure. And the counter was just hungry I assume.”
The bark of laughter Woods let out nearly made him smack his crutch into the pan. “Yeah, you say I never help out with chores. Doing my part to feed the kids.”
If Mason didn’t love him so much, he would’ve strangled Woods a long time ago.
So, Woods wouldn’t be backing down anytime soon. That was fine, Mason had expected nothing less. The only problem now was finding something that would make Woods get the fuck out of the kitchen.
“Frank,” Mason tried in a low, sweet voice as he slid up to Woods’s back and wrapped his arms around his waist. “Really, you’re gonna break your leg again at this rate.”
“Cool it, Mason. I’m fine,” Woods huffed, not paying him any mind.
Alright, not like that then; babying Woods just seemed to make him more stubborn.
Instead, Mason tried resting his head on Woods’ shoulder and nuzzled into his neck. “I know you are,” Mason hummed softly, pressing a chaste kiss against Woods’ skin. “But if you sit down and let me finish this for you, you might get a reward.”
That made Woods pause.
“Really?” He asked, and Mason could hear the smile on his lips. “Since when were you the rewarding type, Al?”
“Since you trashed my kitchen.”
Woods snorted in amusement. “So, what kind of reward are you thinking?”
Mason shrugged against Woods’s back. He unlaced his fingers from where his hands locked around Woods’s waist, and trailed them slowly to his hips, rubbing small circles into them. “Whatever you want,” he pressed another kiss to the shell of Woods’s ear.
“Alright,” Woods conceded with a devious chuckle, turning off the stove before sliding a hand over one of Mason’s through his crutches. “You win.”
It took all of Mason’s strength not to let out a sigh of relief. “Good,” he hummed as he nuzzled into the crook of Woods’s neck.
“So about that reward.”
“Mhm?”
“I want pancakes too.”
Mason pulled his head back.
“Are you fucking serious?”
“You said whatever I want!” Woods retorted with a laugh as he craned to look at Mason over his shoulder. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”
Mason rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t help the smile on his face as he pulled away from Woods.
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” he huffed teasingly as he ushered Woods away from the stove. “Just get out of the kitchen before I change my mind.”
This is going to be a long Christmas, Mason thought to himself as the sounds of Woods’s crutches and laughter faded down the hall.
