I saw this and got really excited because I keep lists of all kinds of random shit and one of my lists is characters I relate to most in fiction. So now I will post my full list even though its over 4 characters (I think some have a very obvious theme to them though 😅)
These are in no particular order btw cause I dont think I could really rank them. Also when there is both a book and film for these characters, I'm more often talking about their on screen portrayals.
Another discalimer is none of these gifs are mine cause I'm an idiot who never learned how to make them 😅
1. Charlie Kelmeckis - The Perks of Being a Wallflower
2. Greg Gaines - Me & Earl & the Dying Girl
3. Samara Young - Let's Play (no gif since it's a webtoon)
Oh and let me add one bonus character. I include her because she's clearly coded as disabled and my headcannon is that it's specifically supposed to be tourettes which I have.
Frank hosts you and his old friend, Curtis, for dinner, letting you learn more about Frank through him. The night goes south, though, when Frank lets something that wouldn’t slip if it weren’t for the alcohol..
notes; hi guys I’m so so so sorry this took so long I’m horrible!! things just are getting busier and busier, midterms are coming up, pls don’t hate me for this chapter bc it’s a bummer….. we love awkward and flawed female main characters right guys
part 6 of just across the hall
word count; 3.6k
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What do you even wear to meet your neighbor’s old military buddy over dinner? Leggings are too casual, you curse yourself as you throw them onto your bedroom floor. That stupid Hollister button up is too uptight, that gets added to the growing mess.
You really don’t know anything about this Curtis guy. And apparently Frank never thought to give you a rundown. All you know is that they served together. So, you prepare yourself to face a stoic, hard-faced carbon copy of Frank.
Eventually you settle on a cream knit sweater and flattering bootcut jeans, finding your dainty pearl earrings to go with the sweater instead of your daily hoops. You leave after some vanilla perfume and a quick onceover (otherwise you’d find a new problem with it, and your room is already looking like a tornado ran through it– this is gonna have to work!)
For once Frank answers the door intact and fully clothed. Great sign. Even with a ghost of a smile crinkling around his eyes as he huffs, “Hey.” He’s wearing this grayish-blue henley, one that looks warm but hugs his chest and arms in such a way that you have to look up before you seem disrespectful. Instead, you try to focus on the smell wafting right to you as you step foot into the apartment.
“It smells amazing.” You don’t realize how surprised you sound until you hear a short chuckle from behind you. Smiling despite yourself, you take in the un-set table and countertop littered with canned tomato passata, the remains of a peeled garlic head, spice shakers and the like. “Am I too early?”
“Nah, nah. Just finishin’ up.” You look over your shoulder at him, briefly, catching his eyes burning into yours. In the wake of a flaring embarrassment you lift the lid off a wide pot simmering on the stove, humming approvingly.
When you turn, you find.. Frank’s face all screwed up as he looks down at a burner phone, a thick thumb trying too-firmly to navigate the tiny buttons. “.. No way that’s your phone.”
He lifts his face, that confused grimace lingering, “what?”
“2002 was a while ago.” Frank grunts at that, lifting his brows down at the burner. He waves the phone a little in a gesture.
“Not that long ago, kid, slow down.” The grin on his face is contagious. God help you for your… older taste. You cross the gap and pluck the phone out of his large, calloused hand, giving him a look that he gets without a hiccup. He rattles off the number to you. “..You’re a saint.”
“I know.” You hum, your fingers brushing as you hand over the now-buzzing burner phone. Now that you think of it, settling at the dining table and shamelessly watching Frank do the classic dad-on-the-phone pace around his kitchen— what was with the burner? Untraceable, like in the movies.
The more you know, the less you want to. Or the more you want to? Whatever.
It’s a quick phone call, quick enough that you don’t get the chance to finally focus up and listen in. But you aren’t too upset, because Frank slips into the seat next to you and rubs a hand down his bearded jaw. “Is it wrong that I’m kind of nervous?”
Frank’s lips turn downward in a shrug, his tips his head side to side. “Ain’t wrong, but ain’t necessary. Curt’s a softie.”
“Softie by your standards or mine?”
“By the world as we know it.” He chuckles only in reply to your laughter, with this lightness to his eyes like he’s surprised that he could even evoke such a reaction. You try not to think too hard about the slightest lean of his body towards you instinctually, that weird inclination of his to smile a little easier when you’re in his sight. It feels too real to face. So you just don’t.
“Does he even know—“
Theres knocks at the door, in this weird, practiced order. One, two-and, four. Syncopated but stiff with precision. You’d think it was funny for grown men to have secret knocks if you didn’t approach this sharp, blurry-around-the-edges side of Frank’s life with caution. Instead you wonder why he’d ever need a signal setting apart his friend from.. Whoever.
Million dollar questions getting asked by a broke girl. You shake it off and watch Frank saunter to the door in that heavy-footed way of his. Three separate door locks later, he’s pushing the door open and letting in a hearty voice, “Frank, man. Been a minute.” You’re a little surprised to see him accept the bear hug that the other man wraps him in. The only man big enough to effectively grab Frank Castle.
Frank claps him on the shoulder as he pulls away, and when he throws his face over his shoulder there’s this eased smile softening his features at the edges. He says your name in a way that makes you want to forget every other instance you’ve been called for. “This is Curtis.”
Curtis’ expression falters for just a second as his eyes fall on you, sitting with this kind of smallness at the dining table that wasn’t practical to host more than two, before he recovers with a practiced smile. “Oh, Hi. Uhm.. Pete here, doesn’t have a clue how to use his phone, don’t he? Right, Petey? Didn’t tell me you were here.” He starts to cross the room, not without giving Frank these wide, buggy eyes. Frank huffs a sound that isn’t quite a laugh but maybe the sentiment behind it is humor.
“She knows, Curt.”
Another look at Frank like he can’t believe how little he’s been told (Ditto, you wanna say.) Maybe he’s made a face at him, because Frank shrugs, his lip curling imperceptibly. As if to say.. What? She knows enough? I don’t know why she knows, she just does? Is there more that you should know, more than a fake name? That’s stupid, of course there is. There has to be a reason, nobody has a secret identity for kicks. You haven’t even thought to ask after it. In fact, You’ve forgotten completely that he’d told you his name was Pete at first. Why can’t he just be up front, like normal people are?
See, the problem is, this all comes through your mind in-between the time Frank’s face moves and Curtis reaches out to shake your hand. And by that point, you’re preoccupied hurriedly taking his paw of a hand to make up for the seconds you hesitated, caught up in your head– so you say nothing about it. But you do make a mental note to ask, later.
“I’m sorry. Turns out I didn’t know ‘bout a lot.” Curtis smiles again at you, in a way that already certifies in your brain that you’re bound to like him– not the same, hard-edges Marine type as Frank after all.
“Niether do I,” You laugh, hoping the slight frustration at being out of the loop doesn’t show in your voice. Doesn’t seem to, he chuckles easily. He pivots, moving to help Frank, whos already begun to plate three bowls with pasta, but the chef of the night just waves him off and makes this face like Curtis is personally offending him by doing anything besides sitting his ass down and keeping you entertained.
“Frank, what can I do?”
“Nah, nah, you just sit n’--”
“C’mon, man. Lemme put something at–”
“I’m the one who invit–” “--Don’t be–” “--ed you, it’s my–” “--so damn difficult!”
Hearing Frank raising his voice, though it’s more playful than angry, makes you realize how otherwise soft spoken he is for such a big guy. Meanwhile, you tiptoe around their well-intentioned argument and grab the bread basket, putting it at the table. Curtis gestures wildly to you like a kid upset at injustice on a playground. “Frank! C’mon!”
You can’t help laughing, and even harder when Frank grunts indignantly but apparently past reprimanding, “Well, that one doesn’t take no orders.” He huffs again at your laughter and jabs a finger at you, “You too. Sit down.”
Curtis crosses his arms over his chest, covered with a cream sweater, cocking an eyebrow at you. “You’re seein’ this?”
“Oh yeah.” You hum, even though you do sit. A few moments later, Frank is placing a generously filled plate in front of you, filling your nostrils with the smell of vodka sauce and the (unfortunately) faint whiff of cologne on his wrist.
“Yeah, yeah, cut it up all you want.” Frank mutters this into the open fridge, shaking his head and scoffing. Soon he’s thumping a Model down on the table in front of Curtis… and a bottle of the same wine you two had been sharing the night he helped you with the bookshelf. Your brows raise and you smile, caught by surprise. He even brandished a bottle opener (that probably hasn’t been used in half a decade.)
“Has he always been this bossy?” You ask Curtis, peering at him over Frank’s forearm as he pours some white wine into your glass— ough, that cologne is amazing.
Curtis barks a laugh, crossing his arms and clicking his tongue against his teeth. “God, yeah. Even got a title t’boot. Lieutenant.” Frank shakes his head as he fills his own wine glass. Lieutenant. Huh.
“You’re kidding.” Curtis chuckles, gesturing with the neck of his beer bottle to Frank’s full glass of wine. He just shrugs and settles into his seat.
“S’ good.”
“And they say y’can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”
—
You find yourself laughing as easily as breathing with the two. Something about the way they spoke, the way they welcomed you into their shared bank of memories so that you felt suddenly like you remembered boot camp too.
“I still remember our first deployment, we were opening letters from third graders, y’know, the ones they make in school.” Curtis had chuckled, taking a swig from his half-emptied beer. By now, you were all finished with your plates, nursing some more of that wine.
“Oh, Christ..” Frank dragged a hand down his face and huffed.
“And Frank here, back when he had feelings, he started tearing up at this one card, I swear.”
You laugh, the kind that was warm with delight and surprise. “No way!”
Frank gives you a pointed look, his lips turned down slightly in a stifled smile, but he quickly redirects his attention as if he remembered himself. “What ‘bout you, Curt? Kept half of ‘em under your bunk for weeks.”
“Well.. they were sweet.”
“I always wondered if those actually got to troops.”
“Oh, god yeah.” Curtis pushed himself away from the table, taking his empty bowl along with yours and Frank’s with him to the sink. “Not that often. But we got ‘em.”
Curtis cracks open another beer, soon after. Frank refills yours, then his glass. You sit around that kitchen table surely bought without the intention of hosting and yet, here it was, holding three plates and fitting three people to boot.
You listen to them with ears perked, keen on their stories. Suddenly you have a Frank-expert sitting across a table from you and you can’t just waste the opportunity. “The guitar?”
“Uh-huh. And he’s not half bad.” Frank gave you a look then, lips curling and brows high, eyes shining with this kind of amusement that made your chest warm. There wasn’t a wall up. There wasn’t this secretive caution wrapped around him like a shawl in cool weather. He smiled easier, and up to his eyes. And Curtis seemed almost surprised at the sound of his laughter, which you guess you somehow, somewhere along the line, became familiar with.
The evening blurred together, a string of moments and lax conversations that made you feel halfway better about people as a whole. You weren’t sure when the center moved from that cramped dining table to the middle of the kitchen, Frank stacking dishes in the sink and Curtis eventually deciding aloud, “I’m gonna grab a smoke.” His tone almost suggests an open invitation, coupled with a dip of his chin to you.
With a meek kind of confidence that comes from a few sparse cigarettes smoked in college, you shrug. “I’ll have one.” Frank grunts as if that’s a shocker from your left side as you push yourself off the countertop edge, you throw him a look and he only smiles.
The air out fire escape was crisp, the world a deep navy and the sounds of the city buzzing and shouting from not-far below. Curtis handed you a cigarette as he brandished the box of Marlboro lites. “You don’t strike me as a smoker.”
“I’m not,” you admit. “But I guess that’s good?”
“That you don’t smoke?” He holds his lighter in front of you, and feeling a bit like a movie star, you lean forward to light the cigarette fitted between your lips.
“That I don’t look like I do.” Curtis laughs at that. You inhale tentatively, carefully testing the waters, and are relieved to blow rather than cough out the slate smoke. It’s not that it’s quiet out here, despite the pause in conversation— there’s shouting from the street below, music coming from cars with windows cracked to let in the last warm air of November. Watching the red brake lights blend into the blue surroundings, the yellow lamps shining in windows across from your apartment complex, and some other reason you can’t place.. a warm feeling in your chest blooms. Maybe you could start taking smoke breaks minus the smoke.
It’s not that the sound cuts through, breaks the lull of city buzz, but it’s more so layered beneath and dug out by observative hands— a strange, metallic sound, like two pieces knocking together, or a coil being whirred down then released again. With pressed brows you look to your left, down, where the sound must’ve been coming from. Curtis’ leg as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. He huffs a chuckle and you meet his eyes, shining with mirth.
“Prosthetic.” He shrugs, getting his fingers flat and motioning above his knee as if to demonstrate a chop. Your lips move to apologize, but he shakes his head. “Isnt anything.”
You nod, eyes resting over his shin before you look back to the street below. “I’m sorry, anyway.” You lean your forearms on the cool railing and try another pull off the cigarette.
“Frank had it worse than me.” Curtis says this with a humorless chuckle, shaking his head when you look over your shoulder. “He doesn't talk much about it. But I know.”
You chew the inside of your cheek pensively, eventually lifting your brows and humming, “That’s Frank.” Curtis scoffs and nods. “He doesn’t tell me much either. I guess… I guess I never asked.”
Sympathy warms his eyes and softens the creases around them, enough to coax you into a smile and an assured flick of that hardly-smoked cigarette down into the street below. There’s a silence, long and undisturbed, before he shatters it. “Y’know what, though? I’m pretty glad he’s got you ‘round.”
You pick your words carefully. “..I’m not some savior.” Well, maybe not that carefully.
“No, I know. Just sayin’. You know Frank. He’s not..”
You huff. “Easy?”
“He’s closed off,” Curtis corrects, sighing gently through his nostrils.
You nod, slightly, eyes trained on the dark blurs of cars headed with neon red rushing down the street below. “.. It’s not like I’m lonely. I don’t mind living alone, being independent.” You hear the question in the stark quiet, look over to see Curtis with an eyebrow cocked. “But it is nice to have company.”
Curtis just hums and you hope that he isn’t reading your mind right now. Looking over your shoulder, you see Frank’s shape, moving around closer to the window than you expected.
—
“So,” You begin, bracing your hands against the countertop edge behind you, watching his shoulders move as he washes a bowl, “when were you gonna tell me what a masterchef you are?” He chuckles, low from the chest, his head shaking.
Curtis left about ten minutes before, just shy of ten PM, and leaving you to keep Frank company while he cleans up (or, y’know, maybe try to help too if he’d let you). You’ve been considering asking him about what Curtis had said. Frank had it worse than me. Worse, how?
There’s better times than now, when the air is starting to feel like a home, though the walls are bare and the furniture old, minimal— now, that you’ve spent these precious ten minutes alone laughing and talking about nothing in particular.
“Easiest way to a woman’s heart is through her stomach.” What’s that supposed to mean? You stare, inquisitive, but he’s suddenly invested in his sudsy hands.
You huff. “I’m not flattering you, seriously. I totally would’ve swindled more food out of you by now if I knew.”
Frank tilts his ear to his shoulder in a shrug. “Just save it for special occasions, I guess.” You get the sense that there’s something more personal, there. You don’t dig. The air is cool, blue and swirling in the space between you, water rushing from the sink. Steam rolls in plumes from his hands, calloused beyond sensitivity to the heat.
“Tonight was one?”
A silence passes, interrupted by clinking ceramic as Frank sets the bowl into a plastic drying rack. “Tonight was one.” He wipes his hands roughly on a nearby dishrag and turns to you. His eyes, almond and ever-silent, sit heavy on you and force you to glance away, to the blank face of the fridge door, to the bare wall, trying to prolong the comfort of the quiet. When you look back at him, though, his stare hasn’t budged.
“You’re staring.” You laugh, you’d feel awkward if it weren’t for… Well, come on. It’s Frank, for God’s sake. Just Frank. He snorts gently through his nostrils and dips his chin, looking away.
Crossing your arms, the movement draws his eyes right back to you. “M’ just..” His adams apple bobs with a hard swallow and rubs a paw over his bearded jaw. “Just thinkin’ ‘bout what you said.”
“I say a lot of things.”
“Yeah, well. The thing ‘bout bein’ alone.” Your brows lift. He heard? He answers the silent question with a slight nod, lips pulling as if to say sort of.
“.. I meant what I said. I don’t mind.”
“..Niether do I.”
“I have friends. I go out.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah. do you?”
“No. I work. I come home. I see you, n’ that’s it. That’s all, now.”
Suddenly, you feel guilty at the shiny vulnerability to his eyes. Somewhere in between all the back-and-forth, he’s come close enough that you feel more or less tucked up against the countertop. Not crowded, but you can’t miss his presence. Can’t ignore that squinty look he’s giving you, arms crossing as if to mock you with the sheer difference in the sizes of your arms. Yeah, maybe, he might be more intimidating. But right about now he’s less formidable and more.. Honest. Wine-drunk clarity, maybe. There’s something warm and tentative in the deep brown of his irises, in the shadow his brows and lashes cast over his eyes, in the honesty of his answer.
He rocks forward, just barely, like a man who doesn’t want to frighten an animal away. You’re looking up at him, jaw working— working to find words honest enough to go head-to-head with his.
“Yeah.”
That’s all you got to say?
“Mm.”
“Man of few words.”
Frank grunts in reply, his head tilting to the side in an almost-there joke. “I could use less if you want me to.” You laugh, then, and it’s gotta be the alcohol warming up your blood that makes you clap a perfectly friendly hand on the outer line of his arm. He doesn’t look at it, doesn’t chuckle, but you think that the corners of his lips twitch.
This is bad. Very bad. Why is it? You don’t know. But it is. How close are those lips right about now? “Learn that in the marines?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Frank mutters. The fat bump of his nose nearly brushes yours, a nose that must’ve been broken at least thrice, and never healed correctly. His eyes are just so warm, and so knowing and soft as they flicker restlessly over your features, and you let your own eyes fall closed, and you think– What do you think? No. No, not like this. Fear creeps up from your underbelly and drives your palm to splay across his chest, and you flinch away, just barely. Why do you have to do this to yourself? You feel nothing short of angry, angry at your stupid head and its faulty communications with your heart. Why do you deny yourself anything that might be good, anything that could be right?
Your eyes stay closed, blocking whatever puppy dog expression you’re sure is creasing the sweet face in front of you, the sweet face you’re sure would come to regret a wine-drunk urge, just a lonely itch that you couldn’t bear being just nails to drag across it. A lock of his hair brushes your forehead, maybe he was resisting thumping his head against you like a weary hound. “We’re tipsy.”
“I feel fine.” Frank grunts. You’d laugh if not for the hopelessness of the situation, some hair is in his eye, he looks far from sober. Is it rubbing salt in the wound to carefully brush the dark strands back, nails scratching his scalp imperceptibly? That gravelly voice comes again, less sure. “You?” His eyes are all shiny with this confusion, not teary but wounded. Your heart is thumping straight out of your chest, and there’s this weird sense of regret already swelling, and all you know is to run.
“Goodnight, Frank.”
“... G’night.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah.”
The door crashes against the jam. A hollow cracking fills the kitchen, knuckles snapping as he fidgets. “..Yeah.”
frank catches you bringing your laundry upstairs and you admit that you have a date.. plans change, and you end up having a little date night (if you can call it that) with frank himself!
notes; hiiii I’m sorry this took so long!! I’m gonna try and be more consistent with the 2 week turnaround time but meanwhile take a little tiny taste of frank getting jelly (I promise it will get worse from here) and a cute little couch potato date, WHEN HARRY MET SALLY LOVERS RISE
word count; 3.6k
part 5 of just across the hall
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Weather’s just getting colder and colder. You find some relief in how lugging a laundry basket up three flights of stairs (two to go!) warms your body up. You blow the frigid air out your cheeks, feeling like your legs might betray you by the time you get to your floor.
Even despite your exhaustion— which, FYI, is not just from exercise, you actually have been running errands on your precious Saturday off— you feel absolutely awake. Because you’re in a good mood, well.. yes and no.
Yes, because your good friend set you up with a guy who, from the pictures, isn’t too ugly. No, because that means abandoning the pipe dream of going on a date with Frank. It means throwing in the towel, not being able to pretend anymore.
Maybe you should cancel. But that’s throwing in the towel twice as bad, and you’re nothing if not afraid of mistepping. Give it a try, you tell yourself. It can’t hurt.
Speaking of things that hurt, you almost just tripped up the stairs, stomping awkwardly on your ankle and huffing. It’s a good thing nobody was in the stairwell to see that. You lug the stupid laundry basket a few steps more before a familiar, gravelly voice ricochets off the plaster walls, "Need help with that?”
You lift your face, meeting Frank’s dark brown eyes peering down at you, across the railing gap and from a few steps above the landing you haven’t even made it to yet. He rounds the corner and meets you where you stand. “I’m okay!”
“Mhm.” Frank’s brows pinch as he smiles at you, doubtful. He reaches for the basket but doesn’t take it until you sigh in defeat. You fall into a familiar step, him naturally slowing his pace to match yours. “How was work?”
“So-so. Charles was bugging me about setting him up with Marcy.” Frank squints at the laundry for a moment, nodding and making a comprehending sound.
“And Marcy is the one..”
“Who just got out of a three year relationship. The one I met from that pottery class.”
“Right.” It’s almost endearing how hard he tries to keep up with people he’s never met. When you glance up at him, he’s not straining one bit to carry the basket you were struggling with. You’d be annoyed if you weren’t weirdly attracted by it. “..Doin’ anything tonight?”
You hesitate. Do you really want to tell him? Your fingers find the clasp of your necklace, readjusting it to the back of your neck. Frank’s eyes follow the movement, though you don’t notice. “I, uh.. I actually..”
Frank’s a patient man if there ever was one. Why not just get it out? He probably wouldn’t care. It’s a normal thing. Normal people go on dates, and not with men that have so many layers it’s hard to tell how deep their core is. “I actually have a date tonight,” you smile, feeling a bit shy.
He’s silent, but he lifts his bearded face from the stairs. You laugh nervously to fill the air as you nod your head. “Yeah, uh. Going for drinks.”
“Drinks.” Frank repeats in a mutter, nodding a little and turning his cheek to glance away.
“Imagine that?” You laugh again. He grunts, lifting his brows and nodding again, but he doesn’t seem to find it all that funny. When four feet land on the last platform, you open the door into your shared hall and he huffs indignantly— jams a boot at the corner of the metal door and juts his bearded chin for you to go first. Old-fashioned. His eyes stay on the floor, though.
“What about you? What’re you up to?”
“Me? Nothin’.” Frank scoffs, curling his lip a little and suddenly slowing as if he just got back into his head and remembered your legs were shorter.
A smile creases your features. “Nothing? Just gonna sit at home and watch some Gilmore girls?” That works another huff out of his lips, which you have to remind yourself to look up from.
“Sure.” You get the feeling he doesn’t have a clue what you’re talking about and it makes your smile become toothy. “You uh, you have fun.” Frank manages eventually, watching you fish your keys out of your jacket pocket and unlock your apartment. For a foolish moment, you were hoping he’d come inside and plunk down the basket for you— maybe you’re reading into the twinkle in his near-black eyes, but he almost looks like he wants to follow you in too.
He doesn’t. Hands off the basket to you, doesn’t smile but nods sternly. You weren’t sure why you felt like something was missing until after the door shuts after you.
With a disgruntled huff you set the basket on your bed. You forgot how heavy it was, the weight had almost buckled your knees (and Frank had grunted a surprised, “Ope-“ with hands jumping to ghost your forearms— needless to say you rushed into the apartment.)
As you’re mulling it over, why something about your neighbor had been… off, a flash of baby pink catches your eye. God damnit. You lift a pair of panties, complete with a little embroidered snoopy at the center of the hem, from over the edge of the laundry basket. How long has that been right there? And— fuck, Frank was carrying the basket, there’s no way he missed it.
You wanna crawl into a hole and die, but instead blow the air out your cheeks. The universe has a cruel sense of humor, you think.
But at least the embarrassment keeps your mind too busy to realize that what was wrong, what was missing, was that Frank hadn’t smiled once since you mentioned that date. Nor do you wonder why you miss that gruff man’s almost-smile.
—
See, when you have plans, and too much time, you tend to start getting ready way sooner than you should. So the text from your would-be date finds you mid-mascara pull on your lashes.
You stare at the little white words stark against your lock screen,
I’m so sorry, something came up. can we rain check?
Y’know what? You feel kinda relieved. With the prospect of a cozy movie night in, you can’t help but grin at yourself in the mirror.
You keep the makeup on— it wasn’t much, not glam by any means, but enough that you felt prettier than normal while sitting on your couch in your favorite pajama set. Absentmindedly you put on a movie you’ve watched twenty times while filling out a familiar Grubhub order on your phone.
You try not to let it be a fallback. So what, you didn’t go through with this one date. That doesn’t have to mean you’re giving up on dating completely, right? And it definitely doesn’t mean it’s a sign from the universe that, yes, you should abandon all other men, and yes, you should throw yourself at your neighbor.
Absolutely not, stupid.
You’re curling up under your very favorite blanket— thick, freshly cleaned and soft sherpa against the material of your pjs but a cute brown plaid pattern on top— and watching Harry stare at Sally from over the top of a self care book on your TV. Maybe you know it word for word, and maybe that’s what makes it such a comforting movie.
Just about when you begin to wonder why your phone isn’t sending you any notifications that your food’s waiting for you in the lobby, knuckles rap on your door. Since when do delivery men come all the way up the stairs?
You don’t check the peephole before you unhook the lock stupidly, throwing the door open, but it’s not a stranger. Maybe Frank is getting you too comfortable with opening doors to big, quiet men dressed all in black. Quiet, for sure, he lifts a takeout bag in one big fist, letting a tentative smile crease his face at your reflecting grin. “Where’s my tip at, lady?”
You laugh, taking the bag from him. “Sorry, I can barely afford the food.” Frank’s eyes dart over you, less in that mechanical, check-all-valves-and-levers way, and with something comfortable softening the corners of his face.
“You didn’t go?” He cocks an eyebrow down at you, shifting his weight and glancing away in that tick of his. It goes without saying that he’s asking about your date. You shrug, turning to put the food on your kitchen island. When you look back, he’s still standing there shyly like a dog waiting for a whistle, making the door look small when filled by his huge frame. You hope he doesn’t think your smile is mocking when you wave him in.
“Psh, yeah. He bailed.”
Frank’s brows shoot upward, an alarmed and almost comically offended look opening up his hard face. He curls his lip, “He stood you up?”
“No, I mean— I wouldn’t say that,” you huff. He doesn’t look convinced, sauntering to the other corner of the countertop bracing his hands on the fake marble behind him. “No, I didn’t even leave my place when he called it off. ‘Cause, when you say it like that, then it sounds like I was sitting alone at a candlelit table, and like— like a waitress kept coming over, and she’s like, ‘are you ready to order?’ but she totally knows that I’m pathetic and just gonna leave because who—“
You stop as Frank drags a heavy paw down his face, eventually covering his rough, huffed laugh with a fist, shaking his head in disbelief. “You got an imagination, woman.”
You shrug, turning back to the plastic bag of Chinese takeout boxes. “It’s a gift.” Feeling brave, or maybe feeling too comfortable, you cock a brow at him. “So what did you do to my delivery guy?”
Frank shakes his head again. “Just caught some kid in the lobby, figured I’d bring it on my way up.” He doesn’t explain any further, and you wonder how he even had the feeling it might be your order. But it got to you in one piece, and you’re grateful for that. You nod.
“Uhm, y’know what.. I was just planning on having a movie night. If you wanna join.” There’s only a subtle change in his expression, you backtrack like instinct. “Just since you’re already here, y’know. Could be fun, watching me cry over When Harry Met Sally. I’ll even let you have some rice.” He laughs at that, low and every bit real.
“Reboundin’?” Frank shakes his head and you laugh in semi-horror, but he’s already stepping to the cabinet you keep your plates in and taking out two. You’re grateful he doesn’t make you ask twice.
“Yeah, sure. Gotta get keep my head in the game,” you joke, but honestly? Not the worst date night.
–
Frank waved you off before you got to an even portion split, insisting he wasn’t crazy about Chinese food. But it’s pretty obvious how fast he scarfs his plate down between huffing and puffing about the movie– it’s growing on him. You strategically leave one of the spare boxes you planned to save for lunch tomorrow unopened on the counter, smiling to yourself when he eventually creeps his way to seconds and grunts, “I don’t get it. How long does it take for ‘em to get t’gether?”
There’s another thing thats growing on him– rom-coms. Whether he wrinkles his nose or furrows his brows doubtfully at a corny line of dialogue or not, his eyes are glued to your TV. “Well.. Kind of like, the whole movie.”
“Ch-rist.” Frank shakes his head, settling back down on the couch beside you, a safe distance away. His black carhartt jacket’s thrown over one of the stools at your kitchen island, leaving him in a black t that just slightly hugs his chest and arms— you try, really do try, to be respectful. He does make it kinda hard to, his lip curling as he huffs, “What’re they doin’ the whole two hours, just fuckin’ ‘round?”
“Two hours, yeah, but it’s like, twelve years.” He opens his mouth to protest, but you cut him off, “Shut up and watch it! It’s about how they get there.” His lips move indistinctly for a moment, he raises his brows and grins at his fork.
“...Y’know whats a good movie? The fugitive. That’s a movie.” You laugh, actually laugh, maybe the sound startles him because he huffs something that doesn’t sound too dissimilar. When you look at him, his smile is toothy. You feel a little lucky to get that.
But more than admire, you gotta poke at him. “The Fugitive, as in.. Outhouse, backhouse, doghouse?” Frank nods, still smiling with that confused look in his eyes like he’s weirdly influenced by your laughter but still doesn’t get whats funny. “That movie is like, two hours of straight anxiety!”
“Yeah, well.”
You, biting a peeling cuticle around your thumb, look back to the TV. New York looks the same outside your window as it does while Harry and Sally walk through the park. It’s the kind of weather that gives you this sudden need for closeness, jolts you awake and makes you realize whatever loneliness summer had been ebbing for the past three months. You let your eyes wander to Frank, who is absorbed in the movie. Hopefully, this weird stirring in your chest isn’t just that autumnal itch. You get the feeling it isn’t.
Nevertheless. You keep your cards tucked to your chest, and so does he.
You don’t realize that a good ten minutes have passed in silence (is it silent if there’s a movie playing, and your mouths are full?) until Frank grumbles from his chest, almost cautiously, “.. You sure you ain’t bummed ‘bout that date.”
Not so much a question, something in his voice is closed, like he doesn’t want to grant your answer any room for change. You shrug. “I’m pretty sure.” He eyes you, dark almond eyes shining tentative and silent doubt, reflecting the warm incandescent from the floor lamp beside the couch. “I mean.. I dunno. I just don’t.. Have the energy to go through all the motions, I guess.”
“Motions.” Frank repeats, eyes flickering away and back as he squints. You’re starting to see him as just a cycle of the same familiar twitches.
Movie’s long forgotten, your food, too (not Frank’s, he definitely likes the takeout.) “Y’know, the motions. ‘What d’you do?’, ‘where you from?’, ‘are you serious?’” He makes a humming sound like he understands, but something on his face gives him away comically obviously.
You break into a smile without meaning it (stupid, stupid puppy dog eyes) and he concedes, “M’sorry, I uh. Haven’t had a first date in more than a decade.” Is it rude to laugh a little? Probably, but you can’t help it. He grins, though. Frank shrugs his broad shoulders and screws up his lips. “Not t’sound, uh, pathetic.”
“No, no, that sounds better than dating apps and getting set up by friends.” You sigh, laying the crown of your head back against the couch cushion. Your eyes land back on the movie, in your peripheral Frank rubs a paw over his beard. “It’s just forced, y’know?”
He grunts in understanding, but says nothing. Ever the listener.
“And people say to go out, make yourself approachable, I guess. And I do, to all the places in the book. I’ve never been the type that people approach, that’s all.” You purposefully don’t look over at Frank, feeling his eyes back on you. “My brother was, actually. I remember in highschool, people couldn’t believe we were even related. He was just..” Your hands turn into claws, finegrs curling in emphasis, “..Likeable. He had this magnetism, I guess. Not just girl-wise. No matter where he went, he made friends right away. Like that.” Another quiet, low hum from Frank. You almost wish he’d shut you up, it’d be easier than finding the words to explain the memories of your brother.
What’s weird is, you know you don’t have to say anything at all. You could shut yourself up. He wouldn’t pry, he probably couldn’t care less about Charlie. But something stupid makes you want to just spill your guts to him. Maybe it’s because he really does just sit, listen, watch. He gives you the time to find the words. Frank’s steady patience is somehow annoying and relieving at the same time. It’s open space that he just waits on you to fill. So, you do.
“I guess I’ve always been the sibling that you needed to sit awhile with to like. And, y’know, it’s okay, not everyone wants to stop moving long enough to. Does that make sense?”
Frank nods, slow, his dark brows tight and eyes narrowed at you. Maybe it’s just concentration in his eyes. That conclusion is simpler than facing whatever else is in his stare. “Yeah,” he grunts, hardly mouthing the word and glancing away.
Silence falls as he shakes his head, setting his plate on your coffee table, tucking his arm behind his neck as he slouches against the couch cushion. His legs fall further apart, and so what if you settle further into your pillows, too? He sighs, heavy, like one of those pit bulls after a day of doing nothing but laying in the sunny part of the house, and you sigh back as a reply.
“I don’t think you’re hard to like.” Frank grunts, suddenly. As if mustering the balls to disagree with you. You take your eyes off the tv.
“No?”
“No.” That’s all he gives you. It’s almost laughable. But the weight of it, hiding in the Trojan horse of simple line delivery, sits in your chest and you can’t bring yourself to find it one bit funny. You nod.
“Niether are you.”
Frank looks at you, his brows drawing for an instant. But he nods right back, lips a little open, shifting his head in the cradle of his arm (which, bad timing, but his muscle is popping out absolutely perfectly like this?)
“I still can’t fuckin’ believe this asshole.” Frank grumbles after a long, strangely comfortable silence, dragging a large hand down his face. You huff a bitter laugh. “M’ serious. I mean, who— who does this guy think he is, huh? Gimme a break.” The New York in him is showing, he shrugs his shoulders up and scowls as he talks, words quickened with frustration.
You shrug, smiling a little at how dramatic he was. “Something just came up, it’s no biggie.”
His lips tip upwards an instant as he shakes his head before he remembers it’s more upsetting than funny to him. Then he scoffs. “Asshole. Look at’cha, I mean halfway ready, and then he bails? No man does that, tell ya that fuckin’ much.”
There’s something unspoken, there. He was a man. He wouldn’t do that to you. And he doesn’t hint, doesn’t flirt, doesn’t define the shape of that vague thing because to him, this isn’t cute or frilly. To him, this is dangerously precious, as is. This, whatever it is, is a brick precariously balanced on a telephone wire and he knows, deep down, that he’s the kind to blow too hard and knock it over. He’s lucky you let him in your door, wolf he is. So he doesn’t say, you look beautiful. He doesn’t say that, no, if it were him, he would not stand you up, not if there was a gun to his head.
No, Frank doesn’t say a word. He does what he does best. He stays quiet.
You smile appreciatively at his words, nodding and letting your eyes fall to your lap. By the end of the movie, you’re half asleep (if you were to ask Frank, he’d say more than half, three-quarters asleep, he watched your eyelashes fan over your cheeks and thinks he caught a little bit of a snore) and you somehow wrestle him into taking some of the takeout back to his.
He makes it to the door, even gets his calloused fingers around the handle, but he turns, suddenly. Takeout in hand, this almost shy look on his bearded and normally-stony face, he’s huge in the doorway but his voice is gentle and tentative, “Y’know what, uh.. I got this friend, comin’ for dinner tomorrow night.” Frank pauses, for whatever reason, and his brows draw.
You grin, a little confused. “That’s nice. You gonna cook?” He shrugs.
“Uh.. yeah. But, uh. Maybe.. you’d wanna join.” Frank cracks a smile, disarming you a little. Pressing his lips after a second, he shrugs again. “Y’know. You gave me somethin’, I give you somethin’. How it goes, ain’t it?”
“I guess it is, huh.” You laugh, crossing your arms and chewing the inside of your cheek. You squint as if you’re considering his offer. He squints on back. If it’s corny, it’s delightfully so, nonetheless. “Okay, yeah. Dinner tomorrow night. Plus a mystery guest.”
“Not a mystery. Curtis.” Frank corrects, pivoting and grabbing the door handle with a grunt. You hum, meeting those melty brown eyes as he throws you a look over his shoulder and steps out, “Stay safe. Lock this.”
It’s one of those nights where, despite exhaustion, you don’t fall asleep the moment your head hits the pillow; instead, you lay there, albeit for just a handful of minutes, thinking. Lazy, dragging thoughts, images without intention, and many of them end up involving the low rasp of Frank’s laughter, the movement of his arm as he draped it across the couch back.
The drift to sleep is soft around the edges, blurred. Warmed by a night with a man who made you laugh easy and let you relax to your bones. You can’t understate that kind of company, really.
you catch Frank at a bad time again while delivering some cookies, fresh out of the shower. he offers to come grocery shopping with you when he finds out you’re walking through a rough neighborhood and you work some more details about his bullet wound out of him.
notes; sorry this one took so long I’ve been writing from Italy (forza palermo!!) but I so so so appreciate all the love this series has been getting 💞💞 you’re all so sweet and the tag list is absolutely outrageous I’m grateful that you all like my silly writing 😛 also this chapter we seeeeee frank shirtless yes yes I know, PROTECTIVE frank, r is no better than a man, and domestic fluff so enjoy
word count; 3.4k
part 4 of just across the hall
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Frank stays on your mind like grains of sand in wood floors, he never quite leaves the deep recesses, even when you have better things to think of. Driving through busy New York streets, waiting for the slower stragglers after the light turns green, your mind replays the exact huff he does when he’s beat. Waiting for your laundry to finish at the laundromat, your ziploc of coins beside you; his shining eyes are plastered on the backs of your own lids. You think you see him, in every bustling crowd on the sidewalk corners and in every coffee store. It’s like he’s worked his way into you, no matter how much you try to keep a safe distance.
Especially considering, he’s a man caught up in nothing that can be good. Surely a bullet to the gut isn’t evidence of somebody who does community service. He’s a widower whose wounds seem pretty fresh, though you don’t know the extent of anything. He’s..
You’re making excuses. You know it. He’s gentle and he’s stern, unbending and pliant, gruff and frustrating and oh-so-sweet— so why are you so scared of finally liking somebody? Somebody good?
It’s easier to think of how creepy it is to come onto a man who just lost his wife than to wonder why you’re ignoring every symptom of a crush. That one, at least, isn’t a hollow excuse as to why he surely, absolutely, positively doesn’t feel the same. You’re a girl across the hall, and a man who’s been married, who’s loved and lost, can’t possibly want to go backwards.
So naturally you react to this information by making him maple sugar cookies. Y’know, like a woman who’s absolutely accepted your place in his life.
Maybe personal baker is as good as girlfriend.
Leaves outside your window are already fiery shades, auburn boughs in the trees lining the New York sidewalk. It’s your favorite season; and, for whatever reason (the reason is across the hall), this specific year’s autumn is turning out to be one of your favorites. A certain crispness hangs in the air, you wear a white knit sweater and dark bootcut jeans. Your designated grocery-run tote bag is slung over your shoulder— you used the last scraps of your pantry to make this batch of cookies, seeing as you already needed to make the trip today.
You rap your knuckles at the wood of his door. Recalling the last time you brought him something sweet, you hope this time wouldn’t follow the same pattern.
No answer. You knock again, leaning and calling with your nose an inch from the door, “Frank? You home?” Silence. You look down at the plate in your hands. Maybe you could leave it at the door. But then anybody could come along and raid the cookies, and then the time you took to pick the best-looking of the batch to share with him would be for nothing. You put your pride aside for the sake of baked goods. “Frank?”
The door cracks open nearly immediately. Like he had been standing behind it already, maybe debating opening it to you. You’d be a little offended if you weren’t a little taken aback. He grunts a hello, but you need a second.
His shirt is off. Gray sweatpants are slung low on his hips, the muscles splayed broad and strong over his chest shift under scarred skin as he reaches up to unhook the chain lock from his door. Frank’s hair is dripping wet, as is his beard, dark curls sticking to his forehead a bit. His dark eyes are a little wide, and— are his ears pink?
“Uhm, I’m sorry, I— were you— geez, I always have bad timing!” You laugh awkwardly, and Frank shrugs one shoulder, gaze drifting to the side as his lips curl downward.
“You uh, you got a knack.” He agrees but not quite meanly. He smiles with his teeth, so subtly charming and so natural that you’re almost instantly put at ease. Squinting at you, then the plate you hold, he grunts, “Cookies?”
“Mhm. Maple syrup and chocolate chips.”
“Christ.” Frank blows the air out his cheeks, pulls the door further open. “Tryna put ten pounds on me, all these gifts. c’mon in.” You hesitate a second— you’ve never seen his apartment. He doesn’t move, doesn’t beckon, doesn’t call you out or insist. He just stares in that stone-cold way of his, standing up straight from where he leaned against the doorjamb. It’s not a big deal, he’s just shirtless, you remind yourself. Guys are shirtless all the time.
You just can’t seem to focus when this specific guy is shirtless. Maybe because he’s fucking chiseled like a Greek statue. You want to pinch yourself for the thought but it’s not like you’re exaggerating. You knew he had been a Marine, of course he was in shape, but this was ridiculous.. He was all hard planes and obvious yet dormant strength, and you should tear your eyes away before you look rude. But his chest, his arms, his abs. you fight to not wonder what it’d be like to sink your teeth into the firm muscle— stop being a perv! you chide yourself. You’re lucky Frank is completely oblivious.
Looking around his apartment, you find it.. still in the same state it had probably been before he was a tenant. Barren. Standard-issue furniture, no photographs, and the brightest color is probably the red logo of his coffee machine. You weren’t sure what you expected. Come to think of it, the place is very Frank.
He nods to the kitchen counter, a mirror image of your own, and grunts when you set the plate down, wasting no time in snatching a cookie. Leaning against the counter, you cock an eyebrow as you watch him for a reaction. Which, for such a stone-faced guy, is a fairly good one. He closes his dark eyes with a furrow of the brows, shakes his head and makes a gruff sound. For a second you get scared. “Are they okay? Tell me if they’re bad, you don’t have to eat them, I don’t mind—“ you even start reaching for the plate.
Frank’s hand shoots out, calloused fingertips scratching deliciously at you as he grasps your wrist. “Nah, nah, don’t even think about it. They’re delicious.” He huffs around a bite, shaking his head again and swallowing. Regretfully he lets go. Whistling, he huffs, “Unbelievable. Un-be-fuckin’-lievable, sweetheart.”
You sigh in relief, and also in the hopes that expelling the air from your lungs could also get out the thoughts that Frank’s bare chest, dripping curls and pet names are putting in your head. Spoiler, prayer, much less just breathing can get rid of those.
“Thank god!” You lay a hand over your heart and smile. You almost feel lucky when he smiles back at you, small but real. Frank glances away, in that nervous tick of his, lips falling open and eyes squinting like he’s trying to call something back to mind. After a moment he stands.
“Uh, ‘fore I forget.” He lifts a splayed palm, turning and heading into (what you can only assume is) his bedroom. The door is wide open, you can see him leaning over his bed, then lifting a stack of four or five books. You can’t help going buggy-eyed.
“Frank, don’t say those are—“
“They are.” His tone is even as ever, but one hand is clamped on the back of his neck almost nervously. (shifting the muscle across his chest and popping a vein in his forearm but you seriously need to stop staring at this man!) “Was gonna give you ‘em later, but uh.”
“Oh my god, you’re— you didn’t have to!” You sigh, watching him set the books down. He shrugs simply.
“Got a new bookshelf, better fill it.” Frank grunts, in a tone that isn’t asking if you think he should or shouldn’t have. You shake your head and him and hear his soft snort while you look through the titles; a book of assorted poems by Sylvia Plath, the Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury, a newer translation of The Iliad than the one you own— “How did you know that I like Greek mythology?”
He shrugs again, shaking his head with downturned lips. “You had a copy on your countertop. Greek.” He taps some text under the title. “This one’s the Roman.” As if that’s all there is to it. As if every guy in your life walks into your apartment to build your furniture, takes notes and walks out to buy you a book based on them. He’s already turning when you try to protest again, heading back into the bedroom but this time leaning over and grabbing a towel that was slung over the bed frame. He fists the terry cloth and ruffles it through his hair— if he isn’t looking at you, he can’t tell you’re staring at the flex of his bicep, right?
“You’re way too nice.” You mutter, glancing over the other books. One is baking recipes, and one is a short novel you’ve never heard of, but the cover art is gorgeous. Frank makes a dubious sound at your words, and when you look up at him, he’s drying his beard with eyes narrowed in on your tote bag. You look down at yourself. “Oh, uh. I’m just heading out.”
Frank tosses aside the towel, brows drawn with a hard stare at you. “Where?” Not demanding, but definitely not gonna take a non-answer.
“That little grocery a few blocks from here. The one with the big neon clutch of grapes on the sign? Constantino’s?” He shakes his head a little. You assume it’s because he doesn’t know the place.
“Bad part of town.” Frank grumbles, stepping around his bare-bones bed and fishing a white T-shirt out of a drawer in his nightstand. He throws you a glance over his shoulder, snapping you out of staring at the defined, taut muscles of his back. Christ, he was big.
You shrug, crossing your arms and glancing around his room. He wasn’t a man for possessions, that was obvious. But there’s a photograph leaned up against the other nightstand’s lamp. It looks like a woman, two kids, joy creasing all three of their faces.
Absentmindedly, you squint at the photograph. “I guess. I’ve been going there since I moved in.” Your mind isn’t on some grocery store on the corner. That woman, it must’ve been his wife. And two kids— were they his? Stupid question. They had to be.
So Frank was a father. Every new piece of information you learn about your neighbor just feels like a new freight train rolling over you. Why didn’t he live with them? Where were they? You’ve learned better than to ask questions. And still, you have so many.
But then, you feel this strong pull to meet his eyes, which were already on you and all squinted from his tight brows. You make a note to ask about the kids in the photograph another time. Frank pulls the shirt over his head, tugging the hem down to meet his sweatpants. All the while scowling at you, “Shouldn’t be goin’ alone.” You fight the urge to follow the movement of his fingers, because that would mean facing the waistband of his boxers, Calvin Klein printed all across. Not to mention the fine hair creeping up from under that waistband, that he’s been subtly covering with a hand out of an old-fashioned mix of modesty, and shyness. “I could, uh.. Could come with you. If y’want.”
Your brows lift. Frank goes on a little shyly, puppy dog eyes darting between his own apartment and you. “Y’know. Uh. Just so y’get there safe.” A smile creeps across your lips without your permission.
“..You wanna walk around a shoddy grocery store with me?”
“I mean, sure. I will.” Frank shrugs, lips curling downward as he nods and finally lets his eyes remain on yours. Sure and adamant. It should be an inconvenience to him, shouldn’t it be? But here he is; not quite admitting that he does want to, but saying with that stern, steadfast tone, that he’ll do it whether it’s shoddy or not. Your chest is tight again, twisting in that way that’s becoming increasingly familiar.
You try not to read into it.
With a disbelieving huff of a chuckle you adjust your tote over your shoulder. “Well… okay. So, we’re going grocery shopping.” Totally not a couple activity.
“We’re goin’ grocery shopping.” Frank confirms, crossing the space and stopping just in front of you to reach for the strap of your bag, lifting it off you before you can protest.
Frank, the burly, menacing, particularly-brooding bear has a tote bag with a baby pink, 2014-esque drawing of two Parisian girls drinking espressos tucked under his arm.
This could be very, very dangerous.
——
Maybe, yes, it wasn’t the best part of your borough, but nothing even had the chance to happen. Frank wouldn’t give anybody an open. Though you only realized it later, he kept you on the inside of the sidewalk like it was his job. He let you talk the whole way, and of course he listened diligently, but his eyes darted around, scanning the street often. Never quite relaxing.
When you slip in the door, Frank holding it open, you turn to see that he’s found your grocery list in the tote and is squinting at your handwriting. You were starting to find that scowl.. kind of cute. “what’d’ya think, we knock out the baking aisle first?”
You hum. “Smart.” You pluck the small piece of paper torn from a spiral notebook out of his fingers, and he almost looked wounded for a split second. “You can be the mule.”
“That all I’m good for?” Frank huffs. But he must take up the mantle of your bag-carrier anyway, because he ends up following on your heels when you turn to walk.
It’s not a big store. The lights are ugly fluorescents, the floors need some sweeping, the employees look tired. But it isn’t by any means dead. Apparently plenty of other people had the idea to go grocery shopping after work. You’re noticing that people move out of the way for Frank whether he asks or not. Whether it was that brooding look on his face, or his sturdy-and-frankly-threatening build, or that natural Frank-timidation that rolled off him in droves— whatever it was, worked. Maybe it was convenient, bringing him with you to crowded places.
With a silly, girlish thrill, you wonder if people mistake you two for a couple. If anyone glances at you, and goes, ‘how cute!’ It’s stupid, you know. But it keeps a smile on your face as you walk through the fixer-upper grocery store.
He mostly sticks to the other side of the aisle once you make it, leaving the middle clear for passersby and shoving his hands in his pockets as you squint at labels. Most of the ingredients on the shelf you’ve bought millions of times before, but you were stumped looking for almond flour. Too preoccupied to look over your shoulder and catch Frank’s heavy stare at the back of your head.
You huff after a solid two minutes of searching, pushing your fingers through your hair. “What’re you lookin’ for?” Frank grunts with barely any questioning lilt to his tone, instead he sounds amused. It’s a sad reminder that he’s been behind you the whole time watching you tweak out over flour.
You sigh and turn, brows pinched. “Frank, do you see almond flour anywhere?” With a low hum from his chest he steps forward, you turn and watch him lift a sack about the size as his paw of a hand off one of the upper shelves. You huff in disbelief, a little bugged by how fast he found it. “You didn’t wanna tell me that whole time?”
A smile (weirdly both smug and soft at the same time) tugs at his mouth under his beard. “You didn’t wanna ask.” You try to tamp down your own smile, poorly, and shake your head. He shrugs, lips curling downward, “And, I didn’t know. Barely let me read the damn paper.” He snatches the grocery list from your fingers to mock how you had earlier, lifting his eyebrows at you pointedly, then the list. His dark eyes flicker between the paper and the tote bag as he shifts his arm to look inside, and mutters, “Forgettin’ baking powder.”
“Right!” You spin, scanning up and down the shelves again, hands folded with fingers at your chin in hesitation. “Uhhh.. Should be..”
Frank brushes behind you again, silently retrieving a small container off the shelf a yard away without making you ask him again to find it. He holds it up to you with lifted brows and then throws it in the bag, you give a satisfied little hum.
Next stop, dairy aisle. A comfortable silence falls over the two of you, the quiet leaving you to notice an almost imperceptible wince from Frank as he steps. There’s a very faint feather in his jaw, but its perfectly obvious to you. Your eyes fall to his midsection instinctually. “How’s the.. Y’know.” You gesture vaguely to his side, feeling suddenly shy. he squints at you like he doesn’t follow, then down at himself.
Frank makes an indifferent sound. “Fine. Don’t worry ‘bout it.” You shoot him a particular look. He exhales through his nostrils and shrugs. “Is what it is.”
“‘It is’ a hole in your gut, and there’s no way it’s fine.” You look ahead, though you feel his eyes on you. “Such a guy.”
“Yeah, well.” Frank mutters, gruffly. It’s when you glance over at him that he looks away. To the opposite side, ahead, to his feet. After a moment, he admits, quietly, “S’buggin’ me.” Not much. But it’s something. And you’ll take it.
“You never did tell me how it happened.” You stop, stand side by side, facing the shelves of milk. Playing a weird game of how long one could look at the other without making contact.
Frank huffs softly and shakes his head. “Pushin’ it.”
“Already?” You step forward to grab a carton of a cheaper kind of almond milk, and he moves just as quickly to hold the freezer door ajar for you. He grunts in the affirmative. When you look up and meet his eyes, they’re not as hard as you expected them to be. And you’re much closer than you realized before. Practically pinned to the freezer by his looming frame, but he doesn’t move to free you. Brief seconds feel like stretching minutes where you think you should say something, but what would you, and does it really matter, but you two are really fucking close to be so quiet. So quiet that though you might be imagining it, you can hear each of his soft exhales, his broad chest is a handful of inches away from yours, you can smell faded cologne and musk from his neck—
He clears his throat and lifts his arm. It takes you a moment to get it and gently put the carton in the tote he’s holding open to you. He nods, tight. “That it?”
“Uhm, yeah. That’s it.” You confirm in a mutter, ducking out from where you’re stuck between Frank and the freezer. You hope the warmth rushing to your face doesn’t show on your cheeks. He falls into step with you easily, pushing his large hands into his jacket pockets.
This was gonna drive you crazy. It already was, for fucks sake. And you’re beginning to want it— want him— so badly that it doesn’t seem like so much of a risk. There was no way in hell he didn’t feel that, didn’t realize what he was doing. Right? But then, maybe he honestly didn’t. Maybe you’re just grasping at straws, and it doesn’t mean anything past friends. You don’t need a lover anyway. Friends.
Friends who build each others furniture. Friends who go grocery shopping together. And that’s devoid of anything even a little intimate, for sure.
You hear him clear his throat from beside you, his head hung and eyes squinting at the ground when you look over. His nose twitches, scrunches just barely and you’re a little worried at how you noticed such a little thing. “Was, uh.. in some alley.” Frank grumbles, grimacing at the linoleum tiles under your feet.
“What?” Your brows pinch, he lifts his face, eyes grave. The bullet wound. “Oh.” You don’t push, though. Frank presses his lips and throws you this little nod before looking away. You mirror him.
“..Some— y’know, some scumbag, followin’ this lady, and..” Frank squints at the checkout line a few yards ahead, voice quieter and, naturally then, deeper. You share another look, this time something on his face makes you think he’s silently begging you to just read his mind. Well. You can’t, and especially not with the hard shell Frank wears like second skin. You shake your head.
“You don’t have to tell me.”
Frank shrugs his shoulders, eyes darting between you and just about anywhere else. You get in line to check out. “Yeah, well.” Yeah, well, what? yeah, well, I can’t anyway. yeah, well, I did already. yeah, well, I want to. Such a stupid rollercoaster.
You guess you aren’t getting any more explanation as to why he’s talking at all. And apparently no more explanation of what happened, either, he starts to quietly unload the tote bag onto the conveyer belt. You’re left wondering, what kind of man gets in the way of a gun to help some stranger in an alley? What kind of man gets out otherwise unscathed? What did he do to the other guy? You can’t even picture it. All you’ve ever known of Frank is, though maybe behind his immovable, stern and silent walls, is warmth and kindness. He was undeniably generous, a gentle giant— but, well, you squint at the square of his shoulders as he sets down a sack of flour; gentle or not, he’s a giant. You wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of whatever he did to the alley creep.
Is it wrong that it’s somewhat.. attractive? You could already tell he had a protective streak. He was almost personally upset that you were going to walk alone through a rough neighborhood, and you’re not even.. Whatever. Point is, it’s just another thing tacked onto the list of things frustratingly drawing you to Frank.
By the time you pay and go, it’s dark out. Where you might’ve felt on edge walking around the city at night, you’re completely at ease next to Frank. Instead of being hyper tuned to every sound and movement around you, the only thing you need to worry about is where you’re putting your feet. “Y’know, they opened a new record shop where that crappy kabob place used to be. I think I want to check it out.” You think out loud, looking up at Frank. He hums in agreement, but it’s clearly absentminded— his eyes are over your head, hard, almost challenging.
You follow his look to a man standing tight to the wall, staring right at you with an expression that reminds you that whether you have a personal guard dog or not, you have reasons to be afraid. You avert your eyes on instinct, looking at your feet then Frank. He hasn’t waver, looking over his shoulder even after you pass him.
“Fuckin’ weirdo.” Frank grunts, finally turning his face away. You huff, humorless. “Ain’t comin’ down here alone again.” He says it in a stern mutter, like it’s not up for debate.
“You can’t walk with me every time I need sugar, Frank.”
“‘Kay, well. Y’gotta find a new grocery store. Or carry.. I don’t know, carry some kinda spray. Maybe a pocketknife.” Frank scowls, furrowing his brows down at you and punctuating his works with dips of his chin. You give him a ‘do-you-hear-yourself’ smile. “M’serious. Scumbags everywhere.”
You turn a corner, crossing your arms against the crisp air. “Okay, dad.” He shoots you a lethal look, bearded jaw all tight and you laugh despite it. “Okay, okay, sorry. You’re right. I’ll buy some pepper spray.”
“Good.” Frank narrows his eyes at you like he doesn’t quite trust that you aren’t still teasing, watching your smile grow ever so slightly.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re dramatic?”
“Nobody who lived t’tell ‘bout it.” You can’t resist another easy laugh, about 90% sure it was a joke. When you look up at him, he’s smiling. Carefully, softly, but honest, down at his feet as he adjusts the tote bag over his shoulder.
You almost forget that you aren’t a couple, getting the week’s groceries for a shared apartment, things to make for dinner. Absentmindedly, you think that you don’t mind playing pretend with Frank. Maybe you could get used to this.
Frank helps you put together a new piece of furniture after a week long disappearance. You push to learn more about him, over wine on your living room floor.
notes; hehe things get a little teeeense, maria is mentioned, r has a dead older brother lol I promise he’s relevant, frank lets himself get closer to you, fliiiiirrrttttiiiingggg but r is still convinced he doesn’t want her 😔 we yes WE will crack the fine much older widower it don’t matter
wc; 3.5k
part 3 of just across the hall
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It’s radio silence, with Frank.
His door never opens, and you never hear it slam shut. His car is gone from his allotted parking spot. His window faces the street, and it’s been dimmed for a week. Each time you come home from a party, or a simple dinner with friends, you squint up at the black square in the wide expanse of the apartment complex. Nothing.
You try to retrace your steps; have you seen any moving trucks lately? Who takes trips in early November when they have a job? You just keep replaying your last interaction. Surely you weren’t pushing it by asking if he was hurt. But then, why had he reacted the way he did? Maybe he didn’t want you in his business. Maybe to the point of taking a week-long trip to god knows where, far away from you.
Better to not take it personal, you guess. You keep to your usual routine; wake up early so you can move as slow as you like while getting ready, take the L-train to work, gossip with your favorite middle-aged coworker at lunch, come home and busy yourself. Books, TV, whatever. You try to calm the feeling swimming in you, a chest-tightening mix of loss and an overwhelming feeling like you could’ve done more. Or better. Add missing your across-the-hall neighbor to the mix, and it’s not ideal.
Little things, you know, they get you through. You keep chocolates in your pantry, keep the vase on your counter ever-filled with cheap yet fresh flowers. You’re waiting on a package for a real bookshelf, finally letting yourself splurge after months of stacking your novels along your bedroom wall and on the coffee table. Though you really are dreading lugging the huge box up all those stairs, what with the elevator still being down.
Currently you’re curled up on your couch, rewatching When Harry Met Sally with a hot mug of chamomile thats about half honey and half tea, in a pajama set fresh from the drier since you hit the laundromat after work that day. Being alone never made you feel particularly lonely, per se. You could keep yourself company just fine.
The universe disregards your alone time, though. Knuckles rap against your door, and a part of you gets excited, because, well. It could be Frank, couldn’t it?
You set down your tea and hurry to open it, a grin already pulling at your lips, before your eyes fall on an older, graying man’s face. He asks after a woman named Carmine. You point him down the hall with disappointment weighing down your polite smile, she lives on your floor. The two of you exchange goodnights.
It was a little foolish, to hope it was Frank. Feeling a little dumb, you unpause your movie again, watching Neil Diamond babble about men and women being friends. You want to agree with Sally, that yes, they could be. But you know this movie like the back of your hand, and the two fall in love in the end. So, even if Frank was around right about now, if you hadn’t botched things, would you be able to keep it friendly? Did you even want to? He didn’t seem the type to want company like that. And, you remind yourself, you were okay on your own. You don’t need someone to love, someone to make you laugh, someone to lean your head on, and.. Whatever. You don’t need it. Really, you don’t, you fight with yourself. Frank could be a friend. A really handsome, really endearing friend.
Well. If he even lived across the hall anymore. And doesn’t that bring you right back to where you started, or rather right where Harry started on your TV screen? Could you be friends without any romance between you? And why were you so against something coming out of it? You try and shut down the thinking before it eats too hard at you.
Thankfully, another knock at the door stirs you. It’s beginning to bug you; how many people could be at your door at, what, 8 PM? Did nobody have pajamas to be changing into, and movies to be watching on their couch? So, sue you if your expression is a little irritated when you pull the door open. “Can I help you?” You sigh, before you can fully see your visitor.
Frank is staring back at you. Not smiling, but not grimacing, either. Just looking at you blankly, save for a glint in his nearly-black eyes. He’s holding a particularly large box in his arms, not even breaking a sweat. “Uh. You got a package.” He grunts, simply, like the sight of him isn’t sending your brows to your hairline. You move to take it, but he shakes his head. “‘S heavy for you.”
You scoff, but it doesn’t really offend you. “Did you seriously carry that all the way up the stairs?” Frank shrugs and makes this indecisive, deflecting sound, like he’s finding words but never says them. Like it’s not the big deal you’re making it into. Something about how casually he treats a gesture that to you means an olive branch, it makes you step aside and let him in.
He sets the package down in your living room, and looks around with parted lips when he straightens up. “Got scissors?”
You stare at him. Maybe you’re making a face, because his dark eyes land on you and he swallows. “.. Or a knife, I guess.”
“Uh– yeah. Yeah.” You mutter lamely, hurrying to your kitchen and pulling a knife from a drawer. Failing pretty miserably at acting cool. You press the handle into his open palm and he nods, as you glance up to meet his eyes you find he was already looking. With an exhale, you wonder if he ever peeled his eyes away in the first place.
“You all-right?”
“Me? Oh, yeah. Mhm.”
“You.. sick or somethin’?” He huffs, and you laugh, though nothing on his face hints that he’s joking on purpose. For some reason his eyes crease with a smile a few moments after you do– but you can tell that he doesn’t get what you two are cheesing about. “Or, uh.. High?” You laugh harder at that. “What?”
“That’s so rude!” You giggle, even though you really aren’t slighted by it. He’s showing concern in the best way he can. Frank scoffs, his brow pinching again and he slices through the tape of the box. “I’m just– I just thought you were out of town. Or that you moved and I didn’t know about it.”
“Y’think I’d leave and not tell you?”
He lifts his face, studying you in some way that makes you suddenly shy. Something about his tone, under the rough timbre, it’s almost like he’s offended. You clear your throat a little. “Uh, I don’t know.” He doesn’t turn his attention back to the box, doesn’t open the cardboard flaps. His eyes don’t even leave you. You meet them, only long enough to consider the meltiness swimming in his chocolate irises, the almost imperceivable feather of his jaw. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”
The silence stretches from wall to wall. Frank nods, slow and thoughtful, and gives you a break from his intense stare as he starts opening the package. Quietly, he cranes his neck to the side and mutters. “..M’ back now, ain’t I?”
Well. You guess he is.
When Frank starts to pull parts out of the box, managing to get his hands on the manual, you shake your head and put out your hands. “Frank, stop, you really don’t have to..”
“Awh, c’mon now, quit that.” Frank shakes his head, scoffing and glancing at you through his brows.
“Quit–”
“Tryna wave me off.”
“You wave me off.”
Frank throws you a lethal look, and you can’t resist a grin spreading over your cheeks. He sighs through his nostrils the same way your father used to, irritated but beat. “Quit it. M’doin’ this for you ‘cause I want to, n’that’s it. Okay? That’s it.” His eyes can’t stay on you for long, darting around as his head bobs a little. You’re shut up by the strange realization of what he just said. You have to take it in context, you know– but something about how firmly he says it, like it’s unwavering fact, it’s so easy to play pretend. Pretend like it’s a promise to stick around.
“Okay.” You nod after a moment of chewing on your lip. He grunts as if to say finally.
–
“Whatcha got over there?”
“G.”
“‘Kay, you gimme that.”
You’re sat on the floor of your living room with Frank, tens of bookshelf pieces scattered in front of you. You said you’d help him, but really, he shucked off his sweater onto the couch in exchange for a plain gray T-shirt that hugs his arms in the most perfect ways– and, well, is doing most of the work for you. He’s got the shelf half-assembled, sitting up on his knees and furrowing his brows down at a allen wrench while you read from a manual he already memorized in the few minutes he glanced over it. He doesn’t stop you, though.
Frank’s hands are strong and steady, you’ve noticed. Precise. Absentmindedly you wonder how he became so sure handed. You can’t resist staring at the veins in the back of his hands, his calloused fingertips, your eyes drifting up to the toned definition of his forearm and biceps. If he notices, he doesn’t let on. You put on a record a while ago, though he asked you very roughly to “change this hipster bullshit, could’ya? No offense, but m’fallin’ asleep.” The vinyl had been Mazzy Star, and you had given him a good earful when he insulted it. When you put on your Bruce Springsteen greatest hits (an ooold gift from your brother,) he hadn’t said a word, but nodded a little and dipped his chin to the rhythm. You guess that meant he liked it.
Two glasses sat between you, too. Both half-filled with wine that Frank admitted was “the stuff,” and you couldn’t help laughing then. Another thing you’ve caught on; if ever you make fun of the guy, he does this little smile and pinches his brows, looks away from you. Once you know Frank, he’s really quite predictable. Even as the thought makes you smile at the half-constructed bookshelf he’s building for you, your mind backtracks. Because, really, what do you know about Frank? His little ticks, fine. That’s about where the list ends.
You lift your glass to your lips and peer over the rim at him, “You know, I think I have an idea.”
Frank tosses you a glance, furrows his brows when he looks back at his working hands. “Hit me.”
“You didn’t answer my question, last time.” You watch his expression falter, and go on. “So, how about every answer is one favor?”
He gives you a dubious look. “I don’t need anything.”
“Then every answer is another answer. Get it?”
“What’re we, middle schoolers? Christ, woman–”
“-- Christ, woman!” You repeat, laughing and scolding him without any bite. “You’re an ass, Frank. Here I am, not even knowing your last name, while you’re in my living room putting together furniture.”
Frank huffs a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head at you and leaning back from where he was bent over and attaching that shelf marked G. He takes a long, long pull off his own wine glass, his nose scrunching as he places it back down on your area rug. It’s taking every ounce of self control you have in your body to not let your eyes drift to his chest, swelling with a deep breath. “..What’re you waitin’ for?”
You sit up a little straighter and smile like a schoolgirl. The questions you really want to get to, it feels a little rude to ask them right off the bat. “Okay, uhm..” You hesitate, finding some filler in the faint imprint of a necklace under Frank’s shirt. “That necklace. Are those dog tags?”
Frank looks down at himself with a tight brow, grunting in the affirmative after a second and fishing the metal out from under his shirt. He holds the tags up to you, the chain in the crook of his thick thumb. You lean forward a little to see them, but when you open your mouth to ask a follow-up question, he interjects. “Ah ah ah, nope. My turn.” You huff indignantly, and he laughs at you. Real, gravelly, from his chest– suddenly you aren’t so upset, watching him grab a wooden piece beside your right hip and get to work attaching it. “Where’d you learn to bake?”
You shrug and take a swig of your wine. “My mom’s kitchen, I guess. She was one of those that never measured anything, but everything she made came out perfect.” Frank glances at you through his eyelashes, hums softly.
“My old lady was like that.”
“Your mom, too?”
“My wife.” He grunts. You feel the strangest sinking in your stomach, like the air has been sucked from you. Wife? Was, in the past tense? That guilt rushes back to you, the feeling like you were pushing at a man who didn’t want to let you in. But curiosity, it eats at you.
“What happened? If you don’t mind.” You mutter, voice a bit quieter. Frank doesn’t look up from the furniture anymore, but he does push his hair from his eyes. Springsteen fills the silence for a few moments.
His voice is curt, simple. “She uh, she passed.” You try not to gawk, try not to show the shock you feel twinging behind your ribs on your face. You felt terrible for even asking. At least, you think, it’s a stark reminder of what this was. A wall being put up; Friends. Neighbors. That’s where this ends. You hate the selfish disappointment swirling in your belly.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Frank shakes his head, finally lifting his nearly-black eyes to you. His jaw feathers, but maybe your poker face is no good, because he shakes his head again, firm. “Don’t be.”
“Kinda ruined the game, huh.” You try and chuckle that shyness off, averting your eyes to his glass of liquor, but it clings to your skin. Frank grunts negatively.
“Only way y’ruined anything was by asking two in a row. So I get two.” He tilts his head to meet your stare, and there’s this strange look in his eyes. Beckoning. Or maybe comforting, by playing into your silly game. Though you aren’t the one in this living room who should be consoled. When you grin at his words, he smiles right back before chewing on the inside of his cheek, lips falling open. “Uh.. Lets see. Who’s that guy?”
You follow the tilt of Frank’s chin to a framed photograph on your entry table. “Oh, that’s just.. That’s my big brother. Charlie.” And damn him, damn him and that stupid skill of his to know exactly what you were thinking, to read you like a book when you couldn’t pick his brain for anything, because Frank’s giving you this stupid look. Like he knows there’s more. You take a sip of your wine and mutter, like you’re being hypnotized into it, “He died, too. Last year. So.”
Just the mention jabs distinctly between your ribs, but you thank God that your eyes aren’t stinging anymore at the thought. It used to be that you cried whenever your brother was brought up. Because, really, you’ve stowed Charlie away, tentative to open the mess of grief and anger you’ve let accumulate. It’s easier that way, sometimes.
Frank does what he knows best, he stays silent. Nods, a very little bit, grunts softly as if to let you know he’s listening. He stares at you for a long time with what you think is newfound compassion, it warms up his eyes so much that you have to look away. “..It’s a stupid life.”
“Yeah,” You huff a bitter laugh and stand up to retrieve the bottle of wine you left on the counter, assuming half a glass would be good. “Yeah. Stupid.”
Frank looks away, his lips hanging open and his brow pinching for an instant. There’s a ghost of a chuckle in his voice. “We ain’t that good at this.”
“Nope.” You fill your glass, and add a little more to his. He nods in thanks and blows the air out his cheeks as he finds the words.
“Uh.. What’s your favorite.. color?”
You burst into disbelieving laughter at that, and he does that thing again, smiling with that crease in his forehead like he doesn’t quite know what the two of you are laughing about. That alone lifts the mood of the room. “Playing it safe!”
Frank shakes his head at you, shrugging with a steadily growing grin. “Guess so. Hand me that?” You pass over a ziploc bag of wood-detailed screwhole covers. His voice raises a little with humor. “Answer for an answer, mama. C’mon.”
You hum thoughtfully, secretly tucking the way the pet name sounded from his mouth away for a sleepless night and hoping that your cheeks don’t look as warm as they feel. “Hm.. Maybe blue. Or pink. But green is nice, and–”
“Alright, that’s good. You’re done.” For some reason you can’t quit laughing, and whenever you do, he smiles to himself proudly. You scoot forward, handing him the next piece without him asking. “You wanna try?” He hums, you nod.
Frank fishes a small screw and washer from the plastic bag and puts it in place for you. You try not to think too hard about the proximity, the fact his calloused hand is inches from yours and you can hear his breathing if you strain your ears. Christ, he smells good. Musky and deep, like a mixture of sweat and faint cologne. You almost miss his reminder about it being your turn. “Oh, uh– You never let me ask. What branch were you in? In the military, I mean.”
“Marines.” Frank grunts, his gravelly timbre quiet and within a foot of your ear. That explains his steady hand. When you glance at him, those dark eyes flicker up to yours, ever-calm. For once, you don’t want to push his vague answers for details he won’t give. He produces a new screw and washer, positions it at the next socket for you to screw in with the allen wrench. “What kinda books you gonna fill this thing with?”
“Uhm, y’know.. I like Bradbury. And Sylvia Plath, too. A lot of classics,” You admit, smiling a little shy. “You read?”
“I like a good book,” he shrugs. You get a feeling he’s being humble. As you screw in the last of the four screws along the corners of the shelf slab, he hums low. “Attagirl.”
You push your fingers through your hair and try (and fail) to act like the little encouragement doesn’t affect you. In your defense, you had a roughened, masculine and definitely older man in your living room telling you attagirl. It’s hard not to smile and save the exact way he said it away, deep in your brain alongside the rest of tonight.
But there’s something else nestled there, you’d forgotten it until now. Sitting back, your eyes find the floor. ‘I’m on fire’ hums from the record player, moody and romantic, and you think you hear Frank humming quietly. The sound is barely there at all. Over the buzzing in your head it’s a wonder you pick it up.
“Real good song—“
“—Why were you all bloody?”
Your voices tumble over each other, but Frank doesn’t repeat himself. Doesn’t act like he hasn’t heard you, either. He stares, those dark, dark eyes heavy but glinting from the yellowy lamplight of your living room, the set of his jaw tight underneath his gruff beard. “The other week. What was that?” You stare just the same. Waiting.
Eventually he tears his eyes away, and they don’t stay on anything for long, his lips twitching. His brows draw sometime, he nods and his voice comes gravelly, “I.. I, uh, I got shot.”
“..Shot.” He makes an affirmative sound and meets your dumbfounded stare with wide, nearly puppy dog eyes. Like this rugged, tough man was nervous for your reaction.
“Uh.. yeah.” His large hands get back to work with the wrench after he finds the final shelf— the whole thing only would come up to your hip if you stood, a nice dark wood. But you couldn’t care any less about some bookshelves.
You blow the air out your cheeks, a little relieved and a little dizzy. “Can I see?” You half expect him to shoot you down, call you nuts. But he only grunts softly, looking down at himself and bunching the hem of his gray T in his hand. He tugs it up to just below his chest.
You’re only human. The first thing your brain goes to is the definition of his stomach, the sturdy muscles splayed there, mind wandering to how the skin would feel under your palms— snap out of it, you scold yourself. You’re thinking about your widower neighbor, weirdo. Except your willpower isn’t very strong and you can’t feel guilty for very long.
Second, you notice the bullet wound. Stitched neatly, clean but pink and downright toe curling. You grimace at it, leaning forward to see better. “Oh my god.”
“Looks worse than it feels.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you.. Jesus, why didn’t you go to the hospital?” You gawk now, rambling and shaking your head. Frank just lifts his head and stares quietly for a while before replying.
“..Didn’t wanna scare you.” Frank’s voice is gruff, simple. Like the stubborn bastard he is, he doesn’t even address the second question. When your eyes flick up to his, he’s still staring at you in that strange, almost shy way. You’re determined to wipe that look off his face, like he has any kind of anger— or fear— to face from you.
You sigh through your nostrils, looking to the far wall to try and make sense of the millions of thoughts swimming through your brain. “So why are you telling me now?”
Frank makes an indifferent sound, shakes his head and averts his own eyes, too. The wall you thought he had built, it now feels more like a hazy mirage than solid brick. “..I don’t know.”
He does know, though. He does. It terrifies him too much to face, head on. Because something about you draws the truth out of him, and fuck, he can’t stand it. He doesn’t say any of that, though. Instead, Frank huffs a laugh and his brows furrow tight, he looks at you out of the corner of his eye with a grin that hasn't tugged at his lips in a long time, and only ever seems to dust itself off in your presence. “Maybe it’s uh, the liquor. That your plan?”
You laugh, narrowing your eyes at him to mirror his own expression. For someone who deflected so often, you’d think he’d be better at it. “Frank, if any of my plans worked out, you’d be done with that bookshelf by now.”
“Ch-rist, woman. Puttin’ me to work.. I liked it better when you were all shy.” He huffs, you giggle hard enough for your chin to tilt back and eyes to crinkle. By the time Frank leaves, your shelf is assembled and placed exactly where you want it to be (by him, obviously), and you both have enough wine in your system that you’re laughing like idiots.
Of course, you’re laughing because Frank’s got wit. He’s laughing just because you are.
You find a way to pay Frank back; blueberry muffins. When you deliver them, though, you discover a worrying hint into Frank's life. Well, technically, you catch him red handed.
notes; frank trying to hide the bad parts of himself from you!! thank you all so much for your feedback and sweet words I appreciate you all so super much! this is where things start to get a liiiittle real but nothing crazy guys not yet
wc; 2.3k
part 2 of Just Across the Hall
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Your apartment’s perfectly cozy, what with the heater humming normally again and the oven just now cooling down from 400F. The warmth carries through the kitchen along with the wafting smell of blueberries and sugar– if Frank wouldn’t let you give him any money, you’d just pay him with something sweet. How could he turn that down?
It’s been two days since you last saw him. Secretly you’ve been hoping your paths would cross in the hallway, or the stairwell (now that the elevator is officially not getting fixed until the 30th of the month), or even on the street. You think maybe the universe is giving you some time to wean yourself off him. Y’know, remind yourself he isn’t a fixture. He’s just.. Your neighbor. Which is good in it of itself, isn’t it? Why push?
Maybe you’re pushing it just by knocking at his door uninvited. You chew on the inside of your cheek, looking down at the plate you hold in your hands, with the four most picture-perfect blueberry muffins of the batch. Did he like blueberries? Did he even like muffins? He didn’t look like he had a sweet tooth, but people had a way of looking one way and being the opposite, you guess. You’re half considering turning ‘round then, retreating to your apartment after being humiliated by waiting outside his door for a whole minute, but your stubbornness keeps you planted. Surely he was home by then, it was 8 PM on a Tuesday. You were absolutely determined to pay this man back for doing you a probably-atleast-$300 job.
You reach up to rap your knuckles on the door again, second time… could be the charm, right? Right. But the door pries open, a little less than halfway. Enough to reveal Frank, that unwavering, brooding expression on his features. Just his face, and the right half of his body visible. His arm is across his middle, hand probably on his opposite side, and his black henley looks.. Wet. As does his hair, curls suddenly defined as they stick to his forehead. You don’t have more than a second to wonder why he could be so sweaty, or why he won’t open the door all the way– you’re too blinded by the twinge in your gut, like you knocked at the exact wrong moment. It’s on his face, in those tired yet almost painfully aware black eyes, screaming what bad timing you have.
His jaw feathers when you don’t speak, and he says your name, low, simply. You remember yourself, following his glance down at the plate you hold. “Uhm, I just.. Wanted to thank you. I know you said you didn’t want me to.. uh, y’know, pay you, but this isn’t really anything, and I meant it when I said I don’t like debt, besides I like baking anyway, and I really am super grateful so it’s no big–”
You stop rambling when you notice Frank’s big, calloused hand in your face, lifted up in a ‘that’s enough’ gesture (maybe its the light, but they look stained, like he only had time to drag a washcloth over them.) His eyes are stern, but weirdly warm. He doesn’t speak for a lingering moment. When he does, he sounds like he’s been chewing on rocks. “Thank you.” That hand brushes the tips of your fingers almost imperceptibly as he takes the plate (Are his hands wet?). Maybe he just accepts it to get you to shut up. He nods and his lips turn downward approvingly, eyes flicking back up to yours with something cloudy swirling in them. “Look good.”
For a second you think he’s talking about you, and you feel the stupidest swell in your chest. You smile shyly, embarrassed as if he could read your mind when you register that he’s talking about the sweets. You shrug. “The real problem’s if they taste good, so..” A faint smile pulls at one corner of his lips, he nods again.
“Sure they will.” Why was he so strained, in every movement, every word? Maybe you were weirding him out. Maybe you were making him uncomfy, pushing a boundary– but, no, wasn’t this was neighbors did? In the shows, the movies, don’t they borrow sugar, and gift candied apples, or a tray of cookies? He told you he wasn’t good at the ‘whole neighbor thing.’ You try not to feel dumb.
Frank grunts, averting his eyes and recoiling behind the door a bit. Another curt nod and he lifts the plate, like he’s saying thanks. “G’night.”
“Night.” You turn, blowing the air out your cheeks as silent as you can and resisting the urge to drag your hands down your cheeks before that door has clicked shut, so that Frank doesn’t see your typical post-social-blow-up routine.
Except that it doesn’t, not for a good moment. His voice comes again, rough, “Stay safe.”
It’s only when your own door hits the frame, that you rub your palm over your cheek and sigh. That was embarrassing enough to throw you back to middle school. But you get over it pretty fast. Just since, when you pass the mirror hanging over your entryway bench, beside your coatrack, you spot distinct splotches of red on your face. Crimson smearing over the dip between your undereye and cheek.
It comes to you all at once. His voice, that weird restraint to it, only now you realize it had been out of pain. Maybe he had been sweating, but the darkness at the hem of his shirt was too dark, the color too rich for it to just been sweat. His palm as he lifted it to cut off your rambling, the one that had been across his middle, it had been stained just the same shade. When his fingers brushed yours on the plate– touching your face– smearing blood, probably his own, on yourself–
You know now why Frank didn’t open his door all the way. You just have no idea what to make of it.
–
You wipe your hands on a washrag beside the sink, dashing muffin crumbs off your fingers and getting ready to face whoever could be knocking at your door before you’ve even changed out of your work clothes. It’s been a day since you’ve seen Frank. Something nestled between your ribs is delighted to pry the door open and see his face; not for excitement, not because of the tiniest, really most insignificant, lets-not-even-mention-it crush you’re developing. But because you’re eager to grill the life out of the brooding man who stands at your door now, pushing down the hood of his sweater.
“Hey.” He squints a little, his brows are tight. Your eyes immediately move to his left side. He shifts on his feet, maybe from your stare, but probably because you haven’t said a word.
“Hi.”
“Your uh, your plate.” Frank explains, holding out the china to you. You forgot that you even gave him a real plate and not a paper one. You smile, taking it from him.
“Were they any good?” His eyes move over your face before they dart away and he nods, letting out a faint chuckle. The smile that tugs at his lips is toothy, and thats enough for you to pivot in an unspoken ‘come on in.’ He hesitates and his brows twitch again.
“Yeah. Yeah, you uh, you got a talent, you know that?” You close the door after him. Because, really, he couldn’t deny that the air of your apartment was starting to tug at him lately.
You laugh, the kind where your chin tips back a little just from the surprise, and you don’t notice how his dark eyes linger. “Not talent, just a blog recipe.” You watch him settle against your counter, his hands bracketing the granite and his arms stretched out to his sides. Just a reminder of how much bigger he was; how much damage he really could do, if he had the mind to. But never do you even consider that he might. He seems too… gentle. Like a big dog trying to gently handle a bird (are those videos even real? And is it rude to compare him to a pitbull, the gentle giant he was?). He seemed hesitant, restrained in everything he did, Frank. Maybe thats what a man like him had to do, to counteract how intimidating he could come off.
Never, though, did you feel intimidated. Even recalling the literal blood on his hands.
Curious, maybe.
“Can I ask you something?” You wring your hands. He makes an indifferent sound in his throat.
“…Maybe for a cup of coffee.” His brows push up, like he’s wounding you personally by asking you for anything at all. “If it ain’t–”
“It’s not.” You throw him a look over your shoulder as you pop a pod into your machine from the jar you kept them all in. “It’s 6 PM though. You know that?” You huff. He grunts affirmatively.
“Yeah, yeah, I can read clocks too, sweetheart.” It’s the closest thing to a joke you’ve heard out of him, and you cover your mouth against a laugh. Not that your palm does much to hide the sound, or the little tilt backward your head does. The pet name, no matter how common for, y’know, just friendly neighbors— it still stirs something delightful in your stomach. Frank clears his throat, turns his cheek and looks at the far wall. “You uh, you wanted to..”
“Oh, uhm. Yeah.” You turn, steaming mug in hand. No sugar again. He takes it by the hot bottom without a wince, maybe those callouses were thick enough. “About yesterday.”
Frank sighs through his nostrils. But he doesn’t say a word. Stubborn. “You were acting weird. I know I shouldn’t pry, but.. Uhm. I saw your hand, and I was just worried if you were, I don’t know, hurt? Or something?” It’s the fact that Frank’s expression is stoic as ever that makes you ramble on nervously. His eye dart everywhere but you, he turns his face and sips that coffee. It’s like you’re talking to a wall; until very suddenly you’re not, and his eyes land on you, his brows furrowed and the muscle of his jaw working. Like he’s silently telling you to knock it off. But you’re just as stubborn as he is.
“Frank, if you're not gonna say anything, at least just tell me you aren’t some.. serial killer.” The corners of your lips tug up in an attempt to lighten things, but you feel so awkward that even your skin feels too tight and the slightest twitch of his lips relieves you a little. But thats the most he gives you. His silence doesn’t hang, it drapes, it covers the tiny space of your kitchen thickly, like an old knit blanket that smells vaguely like smoke. “Frank.” You repeat. He couldn’t be a murderer, you try and smile the idea off, as if to remind him how ridiculous he was being by leaving you hanging.
He turns his bearded cheek, setting down his coffee half-drank. “I better head out.” Your heart sinks to your knees at the finality in his voice. But your feet stay planted, and you watch him cross the room to your door, boots thumping heavy and in much better rhythm than your racing heartbeat. Frank looks over his shoulder at you, fingers wrapping around the handle. “Stay safe.”
“Yeah.” You mutter. He lingers another moment, though his eyes are on the ground as he grunts softly. You watch his jaw feather with a curt nod. Like he’s sealing this conversation off, for good. The door hitting the frame has a similar effect. Except that you can’t get it out of your brain.
The fact that Frank wouldn’t explain a thing, it only deepened your interest. It couldn’t even be called interest– It was a need, to know what was going on. You weren’t sure why you cared. He clearly didn’t want you to; clearly, you crossed some invisible line.
It’s not a good feeling. You cross your arms. Stare at your socked feet on the tile, and press your lips. You hoped it wasn’t the last time he crossed the hall and knocked on your door.
You try not to think so hard about why the notion that it might be puts a hole in your gut.
You never knew your stoic across the hall neighbor, until he graciously helps you with your groceries. And then with your broken heater, without you even asking. And without accepting any payment.
notes; hehe new series!! here’s the meet cute and frank flirting thru fixing random shit for you, this is gonna be a slooooow burn
word count; 3k
part I of just across the hall
next
It starts with groceries.
You only set the tons of plastic bags at the top of the stairs for a breather, hanging your head and blowing the air out your cheeks. You had ditched your coat that day, thinking that it would be warm only to be completely freezing all day.
It's the kind of cold that sticks in your bones even after climbing four flights of stairs, holding seven heavy grocery bags. If you were to check your phone you'd see it's only fifteen degrees out, and frankly it's a wonder you aren't crying from how much your joints ache from it. Trying to find the "tough cookie" you were raised being told was in you, you huff to try and pump yourself up. It's only.. twenty? Thirty? However many more stairs.
You make a groaning sound like maybe you will cry after all. Not to be mistaken with the groan one of the more creaky steps makes a second after. Turning, you find a pair of dark, implacably deep eyes staring up at you. You recognize him immediately, he’s your neighbor from across the hall. Despite that, the most you’ve interacted is polite nods, goodmornings and hellos from you and grunts in reply from him. Even his name is lost on you.
You sigh softly and throw him a nod, promptly doubling over and tugging some of the bags to the right side of the stairs, expecting him to shuffle past you. But he doesn’t. He nods to the sea of plastic and takes a second of squinting, averting his eyes, nervous ticks that don’t make you think he’s insecure per se, more so you think he hasn’t talked to anyone in a hot minute. Then he speaks, and his voice is lower, more gravelly than you imagined, even though his scraggly beard and burly frame is nothing short of gruffly masculine— “You uh, you want help with that?”
You smile, without really meaning to. Your words are breathy, “Oh, no, no, I’m— I’m okay, I’m almost there.” Your neighbor glances away and his brows furrow. Expecting him to finally get on his way, you start to collect the loops of the bags in your already red fingers. But suddenly he’s beside you, already straightening up with all the bags in his large hands. You open your mouth to insist that it really is okay, but then his fingers brush your palm as he takes the two you grabbed, and you’re caught up trying to recount the scratchy feeling of his callouses.
“Still another floor,” he grunts, nodding his head curtly in explanation, and turning to climb the next flight. There’s barely even a flex to his shoulders at the haul. You hurry to walk next to him; the least you can do is give him company, right? Even though a guy like him doesn’t seem to need it much.
Or maybe he just makes like he doesn’t. Because once you get talking, he seems fine to keep it going. Gruffly, not much of a social butterfly, but with the easiness of a man that maybe once upon a time, really was talkative. “God, you’re a lifesaver.” You sigh, looking at your feet and smiling down at them in reply to your neighbors indifferent sound.
“Couldn’t let a lady carry all this up the stairs.” He shrugs your compliment off. Old school. You kind of liked it.
“So.. not because you saw I’m like, crazy out of shape?”
He laughs. More of a low, brief chuckle, you guess, but it’s not forced. You return it when he tilts his head side to side, humming dubiously and squinting up at the landing above, “Nah, well.. just uh, looked like y’needed a hand.”
“Well, my ego says thanks.” You sigh, pulling the heavy door onto your level open. Theres just a ghost of a smile on your neighbor’s lips, the corners tugging upward underneath his facial hair. But it’s there. “Y’know, and uhm. Me too. I say— uh, just thank you.”
He shakes his head in what you guess is as close to a ‘you’re welcome’ you’ll receive. You expect him to leave your groceries by the door and retire to his own across the hall, so you rub some warmth into your knit sweater clad arms and wait for him to drop the bags. But moments go by, and he’s standing at your apartment door, eventually squinting and cocking a brow at you. “Oh!” You let out, immediately turning pink from embarrassment. At least that warms up your freezing cheeks a little.
Turning the key, you step in and gesture to your kitchen counter, mumbling another thank you and quickly realizing he had a clear look into your living room, entryway, obviously kitchen— your entire life, practically. The thought pops into your head that it might be a mess or god forbid you left something embarrassing lying over the couch. You’re snapped out of it before you can busy around your apartment cleaning everything like a psycho, because suddenly your neighbor is standing right in front of you, and just as suddenly, he appears double as broad. And he smells fucking amazing, too. Like cologne and a lived-in musk that isn’t overpowering, isn’t nasty. It’s manlier than any of the men you’ve ever gone out with who brag about how much they bench, in a quiet yet very clear way.
“Uhm, thank—“
“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” he cuts you off, shaking his head and reminding you with a lift of his brows that you’ve said that a million times. You smile at your feet, embarrassed all over again.
Maybe it’s because of that embarrassment that the words slip out without you meaning them to, maybe it’s that meek part of your brain that desperately wants to leave a good impression on practically everyone ever. But you find yourself saying, “Do you want some coffee?”
He hesitates. You see it in the way he averts and squints his eyes, lips just barely parted. Just when you’re about to backtrack and say that it’s okay, he doesn’t need to say yes, you’re just trying to thank him— he nods. “Sure. If it’s no bother.”
You nod right back and let a smile overtake your face. “It’s not!” You slip past him in the small entryway, heading to the coffee maker. Looking over your shoulder, your neighbor is leaning against the opposite countertop and looking around the place. You hope not to judge it; because it’s definitely privy to some critique. Small, kind of shitty, but you have to pat yourself on the back that it’s pretty neat. And you don’t have the worst decorative eye, either.
“I’m uh, I’m Pete.” He grunts while your Keurig grumbles to life. You reach for another pod for yourself, catch his dark chocolate eyes in the meantime. Weirdly, you hadn’t even realized that you didn’t know his name at all. Pete.. didn’t really suit him. But who says that out loud? You tell him your own and he nods, his jaw feathering under his beard. You think you catch his lips moving silently, like he’s testing out the syllables of your name on his tongue.
“Kinda weird,” you laugh lightly, handing him your nicest looking mug, baby blue with navy paisleys around the rim. “I’ve lived here, what, nine months? And I never knew your name.”
Pete grunts, a faint smile tugging at one of his lips. You predicted right; he drinks the coffee black, doesn’t ask for any sugar. You dump a generous amount in yours, though. “Yeah, well. Ain’t good at the whole neighbor thing.”
You nod your chin to the pile of groceries on the counter behind him, grinning at his handsome side profile as he averts his eyes. “I happen to think you’re pretty good at it.” He hums. Squints a little and presses his lips after a greedy sip of coffee. You curl your fingers around your cup, sighing softly at the heat of it. The air was absolutely frigid in the apartment, you were surprised that your shower water didn’t freeze the moment it left the faucet. “I’m sorry about, uhm.. how cold it is. Heaters broken, and y’know how the landlady is.”
That seems to grab Pete’s attention. His brows draw, and you take the chance to really look at him. He was undeniably handsome, dark hair, a bulky nose and puppy-dog eyes even despite the clear hard shell he wore. He wore solely dark colors, a black hoodie under a black jacket, dark, nearly black jeans. Like he was going to a funeral, or mourning, you thought. Definitely the brooding type. But he had this weird charm, cool and without any effort to have it, it simply rolled off him in easy droves. The set of his shoulders and the heaviness of his steps; calm, but not off-guard. He nods thoughtfully, and you’re noticing his little mannerisms. He tilts his chin and averts his eyes around the room as he speaks, punctuating each word with a nod or a shake of his head.
“How long’s it been broken?” He sets down a quarter-full mug beside him on the countertop, brow tight. You shrug, fisting your hands in the sleeves of your sweater to warm your fingers.
“Maybe.. a month?” He nods almost gravely. It’s not much longer before he thanks you for the coffee, waves off your own thanks for the help, and returns to his door across the hall. You spent the rest of the afternoon and the sacred time between laying your head on the pillow and drifting off thinking about him, endlessly. Trying to recall that distinct smell that lingered on his neck, every gravelly word he uttered. Putting the pieces together as they came back to you while you brushed your teeth or slipped on fuzzy socks. The interaction coupled with the blessed knowledge that tomorrow was a Sunday, you sleep like a baby.
—
You intend to spend the next morning lazy. You wake up just before noon, eating cereal on your couch and rewatching episodes of House MD you already know the plot twist of. Fresh morning light that nearly smells like linen filtering in through your window, and just as you’re settling into your couch, decked in a cotton Victorias Secret set and with hair in a protective braid, there’s a knock at your door. You sigh, setting down your steaming cup of coffee and getting ready to let a solicitor disrupt your ‘me-time’-morning. But when you open the door it’s none other than your neighbor. Whose eyes look even better right in front of you than they do in the back of your eyelids.
“Hey.” It’s all he says, grunted low, his expression almost shy. Crazy for a macho, rough-road man who looks like he could crush your femur in his palm. Strangely, you don’t even think of that. Instead you focus on his perfectly fitting gray sweater over dark blue jeans— simple and handsome. Your eyes catch on the toolbox he’s holding. “You uh, mentioned your heater. Figured..” his eyes leave yours for an instant, he squints. “S’too cold t’be waitin’ for the landlady to send somebody. You’ll uh.. you’ll freeze, y’know.”
You nod, a little stunned, a little delighted as you step aside to let him in. In a sigh, you say, “You’re absolutely my favorite neighbor.”
That gets a chuckle out of the guy. You’re starting to learn him, like a little girl figuring out how to balance her weight on a bicycle. Without any worded instructions. You just.. Find it out. He doesn’t laugh, not outright, not with his chest. He huffs through his nostrils, he barks a rough sound, his cheeks push up into his eyes just barely enough for you to decipher that he’s smiling. He brushes past you and makes his way to the radiator, silently looking over it like he’s sizing up his workload.
“You’re really, really too kind, Pete.” Something about the square of his shoulders stiffens when you say his name, but you keep on. “How much will I owe you?”
Pete shakes his head firmly, not even looking at you where you lean against the kitchen island. His mouth yawns open like he’s about to speak, but you cut him off. “Oh, come on. I need to pay you, you can’t work for free. Especially not on your day off.” He makes a noncommittal sound, scratching his beard as he shakes his head yet again. You huff like he’s ridiculous. “Please. I don’t like having debt.”
Maybe that gets him. Finally, he grumbles over his shoulder, “Y’can make me some coffee.” As if that comes close to settling the matter, but it’s something, and you’ll take it. Your freezing apartment is one less thing you have to worry about, so it’s onto the next; your closet is a total wreck. So, you leave your bedroom door wide open a few feet deeper into the apartment than the radiator, and try to give him as much company as you can with a wall between you. You figured he wouldn’t like you hovering over him while he worked anyway. And you’re right.
You don’t talk his ear off. But when you do talk, about the dog you’d been eyeing online and trying to work out the logistics of hiding from the landlady, or about your older coworker— well, you can’t see it, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. A smile that’s careful, hesitant like he doesn’t quite remember how, like he’s trying to retrace his steps.
When you’re finished with your closet, and you wander into the living room sighing, “I feel lighter! And this heater, too, thank god I can finally stop calling Ms. Jiandinski for it.. I can’t thank you enough, Pete,” he feels something he doesn’t need to find his way back to. The guilt, it’s familiar, clenches at his chest as naturally as the filling of his lungs when he breathes. Something is just slightly off-kilter, though, he’s terribly aware of it as he chews the inside of his cheek and cranks the wrench taut. It’s guilt, yes, but the source is.. falsity. He’s a fraud. A liar, in a way. And though he does it every day, lives that lie— it feels wrong to let it touch you.
So he doesn't look up from the heater he’s busting his ass over (and the effort’s pretty visible in the noticeable bulge of his biceps under his rolled-up sweater sleeves, you try to not stare,) when he grunts, “Frank.”
Your brows draw as you take a sip of your now-cold coffee you forgot on the counter. “What?”
Frank stops, looking over his shoulder at you with a feathering jaw and a grave look in his eyes. They hold your gaze for a lingering moment, enough time for something warm in your chest to stir, before he looks away and nods tightly. “My name. It’s Frank.”
“…Not Pete.” You’re thoroughly confused, now, but something about his tone with the admission makes you feel as though it’s more than what most people get out of him. He nods again, silent. So you mirror him, tilt your chin curt and firm. “Frank suits you better.”
His lips turn upward almost imperceptibly, and he looks back to the heater. Clicking the funneled paneling back into place, and twisting a bolt first with his calloused fingers and then with the wrench, Frank mutters, “I’m, uh. All done here.”
As he stands, you smile toothy and cross your arms. “Okay, seriously now. I owe you more than a cup of coffee.”
“Nah, you don’t.” Frank shakes his head adamantly, squinting at the window and then you. You huff indignantly. What a stubborn ass. Well, stubborn ass that has now done you two favors and won’t let you do more for him in return than click a button on your Keurig. You tilt your head and lift your eyebrows, trying to bully him into it. But he doesn’t seem the pushover type.
You pout. Luckily you aren’t looking at his grip on his toolbox, because otherwise you would see the flex of his fingers when you make that damn face. He doesn’t make any moves to leave, just turns his cheek. “C’mon.”
“C’mon nothing,” he mocks in a huffed chuckle, like you’re ridiculous but he doesn’t have the heart to be completely annoyed. He even punctuates his point with your name, firm and no-nonsense. He really was a stubborn ass.
You shift your weight, chew on the inside of your cheek. Nodding slow, you narrow your eyes at him. He mirrors you, like he sees the gleam in your eye. You’re up to something. But you nod, quicker, like you’re sealing off the deal. “Okay. Well.. Thank you, Frank. I’d say I owe you, but..” You shoot him a grin, cheeky as anything as he makes his way to the door, pivoting on his heel to look back at you.
That’s the first time Frank really does smile back at you. Teeth and all. It’s weird, the feeling it stirs in you. Like you want to chase it, over and over, keep this rugged, solitary man across the hall smiling constantly, with his shoulders too broad and heavy to not have some old weight. And the busted nose, the perpetually furrowed brow, the..
You remind yourself that you can’t let this go too far. Whatever is nestling in the silence between you two right now, the one you don’t know how to break, it would be smartest to leave it at… Friendly neighbors. Nobody wants their much-younger neighbor to come onto them, act like there’s something there when there isn’t. You don’t wanna ruin the one friendship you have in the building, besides the one you have with the resident fire escape tabby who’s owner lives in the apartment above you.. But, Frank’s eyes give you a moment of privacy, then land on you intense as ever. He taps the handle, muttering, “Lock this.”
Summary: When Frank shows up at your apartment bloody and in need of patching up, you help him out. But it's a little more than that...and maybe it always was. Requested; see request here! word count: 4.4k
Warnings; mentions of blood, sexual tension and scenes but no full on smut.
You've just had the longest shift of your life, a shift so long that despite the fact you hate your rundown hells kitchen apartment you're grateful to be home. You fumble with your keys, turning them the wrong way in the lock out of pure exhaustion, and then the right way when your brain kicks back to life. The door creaks with protest that you ignore. You've been told to oil the hinges to stop the squeaking, but you like the sound being there. You live in Hell's Kitchen after all, and if anyone were to break in, you would like to hear them coming.
You close the door behind you and it cries out again as you push it shut and turn the lock. But the hairs on your neck rise before you can turn back to the foyer, and you know out of pure instinct that someone's in here with you. I guess the creaking door does nothing to warn you if you're not home when someone comes knocking.
You reach into your purse for the gun you keep there, just as a voice, gruff and quiet, calls out from behind you.
"just me, sweetheart."
Frank. You would recognize that voice anywhere, and you slide your hand out of your purse and turn around. Sure enough, his figure is there, obscured by the dark apartment. You reach over to the wall and flick the lamp on, only to come face to face with the reason Frank is in your home.
"Jesus,"
"No, just me." he mutters absolutely deadpan, as he leans against the wall. He's got blood all over him, and a hand pressed to his right side. There's red seeping out from between his fingers, and when he pushes away from the wall, you can see blood he's left behind on the wallpaper.
You take a step toward him, dropping your purse to the floor as you close the distance. "How much of this blood is yours?" you say, lifting a hand to his face. You grab his chin and tilt his face from side to side, assessing the damage.
"You don't wanna know." despite the fact he's torn to shreds in front of you, he reaches out and runs a finger over the collar of your uniform. "How was work?"
The roll of your eyes tells him everything he needs to know.
"That bad, huh?"
You nod, and move past him, despite the way his affection makes you shiver. "Don't get me started."
"Okay then," he follows you through the apartment, a strong limp in his step that he doesn't try to hide. He doesn't bother hiding those things from you anymore. You see right through him. Plus, it hurts like a bitch too much to care.
"Stop following me and sit down." you snap, without looking back at him. He halts his pursuit of you, and moves back toward the living room.
"yes ma'am." he listens to you, he can't help himself. A pretty lady tells him to do something and he obeys like a dog.
When you return to the living room after five minutes, you're in new clothes, an old grey t-shirt, already stained from the previous times you've had to do this, and light blue pajama shorts. The last thing you need is to get blood on your work uniform, so whenever you're tasked to clean him up you have to change.
"I like the shorts." Frank says as you make your way over to him, pulling a stool close to his chair so you can begin. You've got your first aid kit in one hand, and a bottle of scotch in the other.
"You say that every time, Frank." you unzip the first aid kit, which is a lot more serious than the regular household one. It's got a lot more in it than one would expect, considering you're packing wounds and stitching up holes in the man before you more often than you would like.
"Because I really like 'em." You try to avoid his gaze as he speaks, pretending to be interested in the contents of the kit you so don't have to look up and feel the burn of his eyes on you. The situationship you have with Frank is a complicated one. You know he likes you, and you would dig your teeth into him if given the time, but nothing ever seems to come of it.
"What happened this time?" You pass him the bottle of scotch and he pops it open, taking a swig as you reach toward his shirt, pulling it up to observe the injury on his ribs. It's a large gash, probably from a knife, and it's bleeding like crazy.
"Just a little conversation that went south." He grunts as you press some gauze to the wound and hold it there.
"Seems like more than a conversation." you press harder onto the wound just to scold him, and then grab his hand and place it over the gauze. "Hold it there, keep the pressure." He knows the drill, but you tell him anyway just for the sake of it.
"Okay, your turn. What happened today?" Frank's brows are furrowed, and it's clear he can tell your frustration isn't just at having to patch him up again. You stand, and take the few steps to move between his legs, now examining the wound on his shoulder.
"Nathan," you say the name of your coworker with distain, "took credit for my work again." Your hands move over Frank's skin, gentle and caring as you wipe away blood from his other wounds. This one isn't as serious as the one on his abdomen, but you still want to treat it anyway.
"Did you tell him to stick it where the sun don't shine?" Franks asks, his free hand coming up to your hip, holding you gently in place as you work on him. He likes you this close, you can tell by the way his breaths deepen. In and out, intentionally slowed, as if he has to keep himself cool.
"Tried to, didn't do much." you begin disinfecting the wound on his shoulder, and Frank lets out a sharp breath that brushes against your torso. He shifts his grip from your hip, to the back of your thigh and you try not to startle at the gentle squeeze he places there.
"If you want, I can go ask him to apologize."
You know what he means by that statement, and while it's tempting you're not sure you want your coworker to come back to the office black and blue.
"You'll have a conversation with him, I bet. A conversation like you had tonight?"
Frank shrugs, looking up at you with those deep brown eyes, so dark they're almost black.
"No thank you, I can handle Nathan myself." You tape some more gauze to the wound on his shoulder, and let your eyes fall to his, taking in the expression he holds. It's full of affection, and you watch a small smile slide itself onto his lips, gentle and not often seen.
"I know you can, but if you ever need me I'll be there."
Your stomach does a little flip at the words, and you know he means it more than anything else he's said tonight. You don't want to give into him so easily, but you know if he asked you, you would do anything.
"Thank you," you manage to murmur, and his thumb runs up and down the back of your thigh, a soothing gesture. He still hasn't taken his eyes away from your face, as if there's nothing else in the world he would rather lay his eyes on.
You pick up the bottle of scotch he placed down a while back and shove it at his chest. "Drink this." he has to take his hand away from your thigh to grab the bottle. "You're going to need it."
He chuckles, but does as he's told, bringing the bottle to his spilt lip. You'll sort that lip out later, but right now you've got to sort out the wound he's been putting pressure on for the last few minutes.
You sit back down on your stool, and place your hand over his on the wound, giving him permission to let go. He lets you take the lead, like a good little solider, and removes his hand so you can get to work. He keeps on drinking as you disinfect, and stitch him up, only wincing or hissing occasionally at the pain. You're not sure if it's because he's used to it or if the scotch really is helping.
"Thank you." Frank says, voice rough and tired once you're done with his abdomen. You stop rummaging through the first aid kit for a second to analyze him, his face, littered with cuts and bruises.
"Don't get ahead of yourself, we're not done yet."
He chuckles, low and quiet as you stand again and take the steps between his legs once more. You lift his chin with a finger, though it's not nessacary really, since he's already looking right at you. His eye contact is strong, and it makes your knees weak as you examine the cuts on his face.
"I've never seen someone get this many hits on you." you note, counting each cut and bruise. "Did you give them a head start?"
"You know me," he gently knocks your hand away as you touch a bruise on his eyebrow "gotta make it a fair fight."
He watches you closely as you reach into the first aid bag for more supplies, but stops you before you can pull anything out. "Hey, just wait a sec." he reaches out and grabs your free hand, tugging you closer between his legs. "Just be here with me a minute."
His hand is calloused and rough around your own as you take a moment to stand and look at him, really look at him, without just seeing the blood and bruises. He looks content, and more relaxed than you've ever seen him.
"Did you want some clean clothes?" your voice comes out as barely a whisper, Frank's hands coming up to hold your hips. His hands hold warmth that you can feel through the fabric of your clothes, his touch heating every inch of skin as his fingers flex.
"I really like these shorts." he mumbles again, ignoring your question completely.
"well these shorts won't fit you," you run a hand through his hair, watching as his eyes close when you do so. "Do you want clean clothes or not, Frankie?"
He practically purrs at the nickname, and at the fact you run your fingers through his hair again. As soon as you touch him he becomes shamelessly pliable, his head going wherever you push it.
"Yeah, I'll take clothes if you got 'em." the words come out as an afterthought, Frank's mind preoccupied. He's respectful, has always tried to be, but he can't deny that he's getting attached to you.
"If you want the clothes you're going to have to let me go get them." you mumble after a minute, and Frank opens his eyes to find you looking down at him. He feels the weight of your hands on his shoulders, and his own hands pressed to your hips. He feels the fabric, wishes he could touch just a sliver of what was underneath. He rubs his thumb up and down over your hip to get just that, pushing up the hem of your shirt just enough for him to feel the smallest piece of skin. Then, as quick as he had done it, he lets go, and watches as you walk off to the other end of the apartment to find him a change of clothes.
His hands clasp themselves together as he waits, nothing for them to hold while he sits here alone. When you return you have one of his shirts from the previous time he visited all bloodied and bruised, except it's been washed, dried and folded. Blood no longer curses the fabric, and you hold it out to him with a smile, unknowing just how much this makes his stomach twist. The subtle act of care for him, has his mind reeling.
He takes the shirt from your hands, his eyes flicking between it and you with a frown.
"If you don't want that one, I think I have another somewhere that you left a few weeks ago. I couldn't get all the blood out of it though, so it's still a little stained."
Frank shakes his head, "No, this one is fine. Thank you." he puts the shirt on the arm of the chair and attempts to pull his torn up shirt over his head.
"Fuck, you're gonna pull your stitches out Frank." you scold, halting his movements. "Let me help, Jesus." Frank wants to protest, but he can't find the words to do so when he feels your hands on him. Again, you make him shamelessly pliable.
You take the hem of his shirt in your hands and usher him to lift his arms, slowly as to not put all the work you'd done bandaging him up at risk. "Good," you say, as you lift the shirt over his head, freeing him of the fabric. Frank almost caves completely at the loosely given praise but holds himself together as you look him over.
"hold on, let me get a cloth." you vanish toward the bathroom before Frank can respond, leaving him shirtless in your living room and obeying like a dog once more. When you return with a damp cloth in your hand you mumble under your breath, "remind me to clean you up in the bathroom next time, that's much more efficient." Your words go in one ear and out the other for Frank, his eyes on the cloth in your hand.
"What're you doing with that?"
You look at the damp fabric between your fingers and back at him. "have you looked down at yourself? You're filthy, but you're not going in the shower and dampening your bandages after I've spent all this time putting them on."
"You're not giving me a sponge bath like I'm some old man." Frank snaps, making to stand, but you push him back down into his seat without hesitation.
"Calm down, I'm just wiping some of the blood off of you, you look like a stuck pig."
Frank shuffles in his seat, "I can do that later." his words don't carry any weight though, because you settle yourself between his legs again and he's lost looking up at you like a lovestruck teenager.
You run the damp cloth over his shoulder, the white fabric coming away red as you clean his skin of all the darkness. His hands find the back of your thighs like earlier, and he holds you there, warm fingers burning against your skin. You wipe away at his chest, and his neck, but as you move to clean his face, Frank halts you.
"Why is it you're so gentle with me, huh?" his hands begin to move, absentmindedly up and down the backs of your legs as he speaks, but never higher than is polite.
You frown, and bring the corner of the cloth underneath his eye, wiping away at the red splattered there. "Because who else is gonna be?"
The words hang between you for a moment, and Frank tilts his head to the side, looking at you a little differently now.
"C'mere," He takes his time moving you forward, and you take the two steps he ushers you to, before climbing into his lap. By the time you're still, you've got a leg on either side of his hips, straddling him in your living room chair.
As if nothing happened, you bring the cloth back up to other side of his face, and continue your work from before. You wipe over his cheek, and under his jaw before Frank grabs your wrist in a large hand. "Can you stop that for a second?" he releases your wrist, and moves a hand to your face, cupping your cheek in his large palm. "please?" He adds as an afterthought.
Frank damn near melts as you press your cheek further into his palm, taking the cloth from you and throwing it onto the table beside the chair without so much as looking. You're trying hard not to lean on him or his wounds too much, even breathing softer as to not cause him pain, but of course, Frank notices that too.
"I'm not made of glass, honey. A beautiful lady in my lap won't break me."
He watches as you duck your head, shy for a moment in the quiet apartment. Frank has been here more times than he can count over the past few months, and almost every night he spends here ends up like this. Him holding you close in some capacity, but never straying further than that. He's enjoyed it for the most part, keeping you close, feeling something other than anger and resentment. But now, Frank feels something different stirring within him, in his chest, his stomach.
When you look back up at him, so close now, the world stops moving. The clock on the wall doesn't seem to tick, and the little light on the fire alarm above him doesn't seem to blink.
"Can you please let me finish cleaning you up?" you ask, and despite the fact he could sit here with you doing nothing forever, how can he ever say no to you?
He nods, "Yeah, do what you gotta do." you lean toward the table to fetch the cloth, Frank's hand on your back steadying you so you don't fall away from him. He lets you wipe the rest of the blood away, gentle, caring and cautious, watching every movement with a marine's eye. And when your hands start to slow, the job coming to a close, Frank turns his head to the side, kissing your wrist as your hand comes up to wipe his brow. When you don't pull away he places another kiss on the heel of your hand. The affection is a 'thank you' an 'I'm sorry' and something else he's not ready to think about just yet.
"Was that an apology for smearing blood on my walls?" you joke, though it's barely a whisper. You're deadly still, waiting for his next move.
"I'll clean that up." Frank says, leaning forward to brush his nose against the side of your neck. He's crossing a line he drew for himself long ago, but maybe it's time he lets go of some rules.
"Does that mean you're staying the night?"
Your invitation brings him pause, and it sprawls itself over the both of you like a blanket. You're on the same page it seems, but you're walking on broken glass just the same. If you go through with this, things won't ever be the same. Frank runs the risk of making you a target for his enemies with every touch and embrace. But maybe he's long past that point already.
He lifts his head, his face now so close to yours that your noses touch with each exhale. "If you'll have me."
You do nothing but nod, and Frank somehow manages to pull you closer, arms wrapping around you like barriers, protecting you from the outside elements. He closes the distance in a few slow breaths, and for the first time, his lips meet yours.
The kiss is tentative, and he takes his time getting to know this new piece of you. The part of you he hasn't got to meet yet.
"You doing okay?" his lips brush yours as he speaks, pulling back from the kiss just enough to say the words. To check on you.
You nod, eyes closed but Frank grumbles in disapproval, squeezing you gently in his arms. "I need to hear you say it."
He breathes in the touch of your hands as they move across his shoulders, your eyes opening at last to look at him. "I'm okay."
Your fingers slide up the nape of his neck, and that feeling that tugs at his chest starts again. He knows what it is, but he hasn't felt that way for someone in so long that can't bring himself to acknowledge it just yet. This time, you lean in for the next kiss, and your initiation of it drives him wild. His hands find your hips, grinding you down onto his lap just as a shrill sound fills the apartment. Your nose bumps with his awkwardly as you startle to attention, looking toward the source of the sound. It's the doorbell, though you have no idea who would be ringing it at this hour. Frank groans as you shift on top of him and you can't help but notice that he's very solid beneath you.
"Should we go see who that is?" you say as he turns your head back to face him with an eager hand. His fingers trace down your jaw, marking out a path for his lips later on.
"Probably just some kids." Frank mutters, pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth. He's tense in the shoulders now though, and you can tell he wants to know who has interrupted your night just as much as you do. He's weighing up whether or not to let it go, running his warm hands up your legs, teasing the fabric of your shorts with his fingers, when the doorbell rings again.
"Maybe if we ignore them, they'll go away?" you offer, kissing Frank's shoulder. He bucks his hips up slightly, an almost involuntary movement to relieve some tension, and you chuckle against his skin. He could get used to this if given the chance.
The doorbell rings a third time, and it's becoming apparent that whoever it is, is not going away. "Fuck's sake." Frank throws his head back in frustration, both sexual and otherwise, grabbing the fresh shirt you got him off the arm of the chair. He pulls it over his head with a little help from you just as a voice calls out from behind your front door.
"I know you're in there, Frank."
The voice is one you don't recognize but clearly Frank does, because he mutters under his breath, "Fucking Lieberman," before lifting you effortlessly off his lap. Your feet touch the carpet as Frank stands and heads toward your door. It's strange to see him like this, moving to answer your door in an almost domestic manner, even though you know it's anything but. You can almost imagine being with him in a home you share, though you don't have time to dwell on it before Frank pulls open the door and you rush to make yourself semi presentable to whoever it is. You run a hand through you hair, and pull your shorts a little lower, straightening them out from where Frank's hands have roamed.
You move toward the door but keep a fair distance back, waiting for Frank's assessment of the man he knows.
"What'd you want?" Frank's rough voice sends a shiver down your spine, the outside air cold and fresh coming in through the open door.
"Why weren't you answering your phone?" the so called Lieberman asks, avoiding Frank's question as if he's used to it by now.
"I'm busy,"
Frank's response gets Lieberman looking past him and into the apartment. His gaze finds you as the words come together in his mind. He takes in the sight of you, and then looks back at Frank, and down a little to the tent in Frank's black cargo pants—a reminder of the sort of busy Frank was.
"Oh shit, I uh—" Lieberman fumbles over his words, taking a breath to compose himself. "we've got a situation, and I hate to interrupt but this is a little more important."
Frank is struggling to think of something more important than what's in the room behind him right now, but he nods. "Can you give me a minute?"
Lieberman doesn't object, and Frank closes the door in his face after a few seconds of silence. When he turns back to face you, he heaves a sigh that makes you laugh.
"Raincheck?" you say, even though that's the last thing you want to do. He makes his way toward you, reaching out those hot hands to hold you again.
"I'm sorry," he presses a kiss to your forehead, and it's extremely clear that your relationship with him has changed in to something far more serious than before.
"S'okay, just make sure you come back and finish what you started another time." You can feel him smile into your hair, and he pulls you into him one last time before he leaves for the night. He's all patched up and clean, thanks to you, but he wishes he had the time to repay you for it.
"I'll be back before you know I'm gone." his voice is a deep rumble that you can feel in your chest and you pull back to look at him. He's still got the split lip you forgot to attend to in favor of kissing it, and a cut on his brow left untreated as well. But he's more than capable to doing that himself.
You push yourself up onto your tiptoes and kiss him, and his hands tighten their grip on you momentarily in order to savor it. He tastes like blood and spearmint, something you note as he pulls away and the taste of his lips lingers. You push him toward the door, gently so as not to bruise him more than he already is, and though it's not common, he smiles. He really smiles, before opening the door to the apartment and putting back on his facade. He slips outside without anymore words, but you know everything that went without saying.
I'll be back soon. Wait for me.
I love you.
-
reblog and comment to support your writers! (also don't feed my work into ai databases please)
GENERAL TAGLIST: @heliads @candywh0r3 @caplanreadss @hiya-itsamber @s00buwu
“Know I wanna beat it, wanna beat it bad
Oh, everyone looks happy in a photograph
I've crossed the county line, I cannot go back
I'm always on my own.”
-All Them Horses, Noah Kahan
summary: your family is in town for the annual ‘parents berating their kids for their decisions’ get together. jack overhears you talking about how much easier it would be if you had a boyfriend to shove in their face, and offers his services. No strings attached, of course.
wc: 15.7k (steak is too juicy lobster is too buttery)
tags/tropes: jack falls first and harder, reader is an eldest daughter (but not the eldest child) to a large judgmental family who are constantly disappointed in her, jack pretty much uses the fake dating as a chance to show reader what a good boyfriend he COULD be to her if she let herself have nice things, jack 'i'll pay for it' abbot, jack is YEARNING in this one, a teeny bit of mean dom jack as a treat
a/n: how are we all feeling about the latest noah kahan album. Doors is great. i do NOT repeat timestamp 2:14-2:21 of All Them Horses. i’m normal and can be trusted with noah kahan’s discography. this fic was supposed to be crossposted on ao3 at the time of post but ao3 crashed and i lost all of my tagging and uploading process so im saving that. for later. when it is POSTED it will be linked below :)
acknowledgements: thank you @wesandresons for the amazing gif and @saradika-graphics, @chrisssiren, and @uzmacchiato for the dividers! and thank you @leeknowpegger for your work in keeping up morale and being deranged with me
masterlist
“Your family’s in town?”
You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries.
You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone.
“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”
“Dinner circuit?”
You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”
“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”
You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”
The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.”
“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”
“So your fucked, basically.”
Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”
Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.”
“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”
“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”
You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”
He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”
“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”
“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”
“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”
The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”
“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”
“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”
“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand.
Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”
Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”
“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”
Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”
Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?
You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby.
“Mom?”
“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”
“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“
She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.”
“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“
“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”
You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”
“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“
“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”
“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”
Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
Jack.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.
Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him.
“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”
You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures.
Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks.
“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”
And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway.
“You work with my daughter?”
“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”
Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke.
She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles.
“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”
Proud of the money I send home, maybe.
“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”
“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“
You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better.
Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders.
“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”
Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely.
“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”
Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside.
The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale.
“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“
“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”
“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”
He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”
You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”
“Are those desired outcomes?”
“Mostly.”
He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”
It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack.
So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.
“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”
“You could.”
“Wipe out my entire family?”
“Take me to dinner with you.”
Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious.
“Are you joking?”
He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—
“No.”
You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“
“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”
What. The. Fuck.
“No.” You gape, incredulous.
“No?” He raises an eyebrow.
“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“
“Jack.”
You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“
“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”
“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”
“In the ED, obviously.”
“How long have we been together?”
“Month and a half.”
“Why are we even dating?”
“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”
Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine.
“Have you… thought about this?”
He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”
“Are you rich?”
There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile.
“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”
You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”
“But you do?”
“They’re my family.”
Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere.
You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?”
“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”
“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”
“Beats drinking beer in the park.”
You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life.
On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win.
“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”
Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”
“Flowers?”
“Naturally.”
“You pay?”
“For every meal.”
“What’s my favorite color?”
“Navy blue. Mine?”
You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”
Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients.
“Will she really be that upset about it?”
“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”
Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”
“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”
“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”
Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind.
“Deal.”
—
Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend.
Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.
In a way.
You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.
Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go.
Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door.
You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.
Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—
“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”
You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape.
“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”
Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked.
Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“
Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?
“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”
Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing?
He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain.
“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”
You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”
“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.”
You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”
“You could swap me with someone else?”
“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”
“Touché.”
The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically.
“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”
“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”
Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom.
“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”
“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”
Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go.
He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly.
Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.
Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”
“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”
Right. That's probably an unhinged question.
“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”
He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”
“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”
Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”
You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“
“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.
“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”
He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly.
“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”
“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”
Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”
He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply.
“You smell good.”
Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold.
“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”
You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain.
The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask.
(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”
“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”
“Fair point.”)
By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them.
At least, that’s what he says.
“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”
You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”
“Singing your praises, of course.”
Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable.
The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying.
As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body.
The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you.
You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers:
“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”
Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you.
When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves.
Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“
You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness.
Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well.
If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place.
He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby.
“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”
Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place.
“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”
Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”
Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack.
“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“
“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”
Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”
Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”
You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending.
“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.”
Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”
Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you.
“How’d I do?”
You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”
“Looking forward to it.”
The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can.
To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking:
“Do you really wanna do this right now?”
Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs.
Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for.
“So. Dr. Abbot—”
“Just Jack is fine.”
“—How long have the two of you been dating?”
“A month and a half.”
“Why’d you start dating?”
You take a generous gulp of your wine.
“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”
“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in.
Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”
You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes.
That’s going in the mental folder.
“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”
“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”
You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine.
The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.
Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear.
“Mr. Abbot—“
“Either Doctor or Jack works.”
Ooo. There was some bite in that one.
Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better.
But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions.
This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward.
“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?”
Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot.
Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe.
“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.”
For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on.
But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way.
He’s perfect.
Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look.
Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide.
Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car.
“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”
Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead.
“Jack?”
“They didn’t even talk to you.”
You blink.
“What?”
“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”
You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”
He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?
“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips.
“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“
“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”
Oh.
“How do you know that?”
“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”
Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”
“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”
“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”
Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed.
Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.
“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?”
He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.
(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)
“Of course I remember.”
There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present.
The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)
But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone.
Jack just keeps looking at you.
He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact.
He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking.
“You’re so much more than them.”
Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold.
“What?”
“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.”
You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat.
“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“
“No.”
Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly.
An old habit.
Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.
“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.”
Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“
“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.”
“Jack—“
“Please.”
You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain.
He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging.
“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”
You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?”
Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability.
“I’ll walk you to your door.”
The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress.
At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.
Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him.
(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.
You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)
You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better?
“You have that look on your face.”
You frown. “What look?”
“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
“It’s freaky when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“You always know what I’m thinking.”
Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets.
Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?”
“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.”
“Oh.”
It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad.
He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you.
Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”
Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense.
Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger.
“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?”
The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it.
He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.”
“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”
“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”
“Maybe I‘ll—“
“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.”
You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out.
Sometimes it feels like he balances you out.
“Goodnight.”
He gives you a little smile of his own.
“Goodnight.”
—
Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you.
So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list.
“This really isn’t a good time—“
“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.”
“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”
“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“
The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room.
“She fight back at all?”
“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.”
“Christ.”
“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”
“Fuck. Do you think—“
“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.”
Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.”
“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?”
“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”
Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”
“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.”
“That bad?”
“Yeah.”
The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand.
“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”
“It’s different.”
“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”
“You lost me on that last one.”
“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.”
“Is there a difference?”
“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”
“Are you sure you want to get involved?”
“Bit late for that.”
“You could pull back.”
“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”
“She is a grown woman.”
“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”
He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone.
“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”
Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”
The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.”
He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up.
“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”
“Worse than you expected?”
“Yeah.”
“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”
“Fuck no.”
“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.”
“I save lives too.”
“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”
“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”
“That’s what they all say.”
Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed.
But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.
—
The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help.
It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest.
But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions:
“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?”
And:
“What’s Jack like on a date?”
The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.
You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him.
Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume.
(“…I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”)
It’s all too much.
Hence the avoiding.
You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner.
But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack.
All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack.
You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else.
It’s how they treat you.
You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too.
But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different.
It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal.
“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?”
You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.
“I’m not hiding from you.”
Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”
“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.”
“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”
You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”
Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it.
You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing.
It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen.
“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?”
“Nothing.”
He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”
He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give.
“I’m just worried.”
“You? Worried? No.”
You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”
“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”
You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face.
“Why do you care?”
The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place.
You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do.
You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense.
Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense.
“Why do I care about what?”
“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.”
It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for.
He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight.
“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”
“But why?”
“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?”
You snort. “Guilty as charged.”
Now it’s his turn to sigh.
“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”
You frown. “It is.”
“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.”
You scoff. “So this is about my family.”
He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”
“They’re not that bad.”
“They are.”
“Other people have it worse.”
“It’s not a competition.”
You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?”
“Because it’s a big deal to you.”
The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you.
It’s Jack who speaks first though.
“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.”
A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.
“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.
Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.”
“We will?”
“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”
You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out.
The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him.
Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.
You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head.
“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself.
That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.”
He would. He totally would.
The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring.
(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)
–
The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years.
The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before.
The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own.
It’s as frustrating as it is hot.
But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment.
It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out.
You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below.
At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like.
“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.”
You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever.
Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed.
You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood.
“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”
Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule."
“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.”
Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three.
Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over.
“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.”
He smiles thinly. “None taken.”
Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure.
So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary.
“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?”
That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man.
“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.”
Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.”
Your blood runs cold.
Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”
It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough.
“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”
“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning.
Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”
Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t.
“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”
Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.”
Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”
Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch.
“He cheated on me with my best friend.”
At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.”
“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.”
Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”
Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.”
“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.”
Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober.
Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service.
By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment.
“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?”
“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.”
“Oh. That was nice of you.”
He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”
You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.”
“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.”
“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.”
You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.”
You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.”
“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.”
You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”
Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.”
Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.
Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same.
“And what about me?”
Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.
The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.”
“Oh really?”
“Mmm. Nope.”
“How come?”
"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.”
“You think you’re wrong?”
“Still can’t figure you out.”
“And how can I show you that I mean it?”
That’s. Hmm.
“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.”
His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?”
“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”
“Competent?”
“That’s the word.”
If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it.
“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.”
“Are you like Bob the Builder?”
“I’m a doctor, so no.”
“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.”
“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”
“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?”
“No.”
‘Then yes.”
“You sure? I wasn’t lying.”
“I know. But I like your cooking.”
You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.”
It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation.
When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment.
His gigantic apartment.
“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.”
“Its not that big.”
“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.”
You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.
You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober.
“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”
“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.”
He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”
You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?
“Only if you don’t mind.”
“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.”
Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.
He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.”
Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.)
Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so.
“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that.
“Looking at the sparkles.”
“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”
“You made vodka pasta?”
He shrugs. “You said you liked it.”
You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.”
Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not.
“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.”
“M’ not fallin’ asleep.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?
“What’re’you’ making?”
“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.”
“Oh. How come?”
“Because I don’t want you to throw up.”
“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.”
“You drink often?”
“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.”
“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?”
“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.”
“I see.”
“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being.
“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.”
“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.”
“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit.
Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm.
“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”
“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”
“It won’t be when you wake up.”
You whine, curling away from him.
He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”
“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”
“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”
“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”
“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”
“I like sleeping on couches.”
He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.”
You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”
Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”
“It’d be weird to wake up here.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my boss.”
“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.”
“What would we even do in the morning?”
“Sleep.”
“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“You’re my guest–”
“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?”
Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs.
“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.”
Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.”
The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–
“You okay there?”
“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.”
He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest.
“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.”
Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him.
Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline.
You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.
“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”
His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him.
“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment.
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Good. Like man.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.”
“Why do you call me sweetheart?”
“Because you’re a sweetheart.”
“I am?”
“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.”
You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.”
“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.
You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place.
It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating
And you love it.
Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn.
“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.”
Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it.
The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together.
He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say.
You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other.
Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can.
–
Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit.
You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again.
You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place.
“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.”
“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”
“Okay. No need to rub it in.”
He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.”
“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.”
Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?”
“...Yes?”
“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?”
You’d nodded.
He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.”
Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish.
The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with.
He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?
The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety.
“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.”
You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle.
“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”
Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.”
“True. But what if?”
“I’m not going to help you spiral.”
“Why not?” You whine.
He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.”
You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt.
When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention.
But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables.
The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times.
Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that.
There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.
You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.
You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.
You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.
“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”
Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.”
“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”
“But–”
“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.”
Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face.
He looks up when the door opens. “Better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation.
Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food.
It can’t just be over like this. It can't.
When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.
“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.”
“So it is.”
“Guess I owe you big time, huh?”
“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.”
“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.”
You lapse into silence.
Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”
“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”
It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending.
It felt real.
It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.
Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.
When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.”
Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight.
“What if I’m wrong?”
“You won’t be.”
A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.”
He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm.
“You do.”
Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you.
“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.”
“You think,” He drawls, “I might.”
“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry.
Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh.
“Come here.”
You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you.
Jack does love to prove you wrong.
“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.”
Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”
“More than a little?”
“Yes.”
“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.”
“Use your words.”
“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning.
“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.”
You frown. “And how would you have put it?”
“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.”
You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work.
You frown.
Wait.
“Have you known I liked you this whole time?”
Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”
He’s known since the second week?
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”
“Oh my god.”
“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.”
You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place.
“Can you take a compliment?”
“No.”
He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.”
“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?”
“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”
“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.”
“How kind of you to share my bed with me.”
“I have been told I’m kind.”
You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips.
It’s just like your dream.
Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back.
summary: the moral of the story is don’t let ben poindexter talk himself in or out of anything. the second moral is don’t let him figure out what you actually want. the thing is? you let him do both, and more.
warnings: 18 / Explicit NSFW. morally gray reader (i mean it), brief canon-typical violence, references to attempted murder (fisk had her shot, it comes up), smut: dirty talk, restraints/handcuffs, handjob, edging, orgasm denial, teasing, unprotected sex, situational power dynamic, dex being an unsettling smug bastard about all of it + a little subby.
wc: 4.1K | read it on ao3!
When you’d told Matt to call you if anything came up, you imagined anything but this: keeping an eye on Bullseye.
It turns out, as Matt puts it, that Karen wants the man gone, and by ‘gone’ it doesn’t mean gone from the safe house, it means gone from planet earth. Dead.
Which was conflicting to hear, because the Karen you know wouldn’t want to kill anyone, not with the way Wesley still haunts her, but also? Karen would absolutely want to avenge Foggy, so that’s the crossroad. And according to Matt, that isn’t the only conflict, because he had explicitly said
“I cannot let her kill him and do something that will haunt her forever, but I also don’t want him free and roaming, I don’t want him killing Fisk and turning him into a fucking martyr.”
So here you are, keeping an eye on him.
And so far it’s been easy, because he went back to sleep. Or well, Matt knocked him out—to be honest— but the point remains, he’s not being an issue. All you have to do is keep things like this until Matt and Karen come back.
Shouldn’t be too hard.
You looked at him again, he laid shirtless in bed, cuffed to the sides. Fresh gauze, alcohol, cotton, a medical stapler and tape sat on the crate beside you, just in case you needed them, which was very likely. They had patched the worst of the wounds before leaving, but the bandages on his side were already seeping again.
You didn’t want to be here. Matt had asked you because he trusted you, an old friend who’d survived Fisk’s wrath once before.—The bald bastard had tried to get you killed, after all— and because Karen had tried to put a bullet in Pointdexter’s head the moment they dragged him in.
To be honest, a part of you, a dark, whispering part, wanted Dex awake and mobile. Wanted him to walk out of here and finish the job Matt refused to fucking do.
But it’s not a matter of what you want.
With a sigh, you made your way to him with the gauze, cotton, alcohol and tape in hand, kneeling next to him on the bed. Your eyes flickered to him, making sure he was still out before daring to touch him. You peeled back the old dressing on his side as carefully as you could. His skin was fever-warm, muscles sculpted even in unconsciousness, marred by fresh bruises and the ugly gunshot wound. You used the cotton and alcohol to wipe him clean again, and then pressed clean gauze over the wound, securing it with tape, trying not to think about how still he was. You tried very hard not to think about how dangerous even this version of him felt, the man could kill people with anything, literally anything.
His hand snapped up without warning.
Fingers locked around your wrist, yanking your hand up against his chest. His eyes flew open, sharp, pale, instantly focused despite the pain. It was an intense stare that pinned you where you knelt beside the bed, it was scary. He didn’t squeeze hard enough to bruise, but there was no escaping his grip.
“You’re not Karen,” he rasped, voice rough from disuse and pain. A faint, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, it was honestly a little unsettling. “Good. She’d have finished the job by now.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs. You didn’t pull away immediately. “Let go.”
He didn’t, of course. His thumb brushed once over the inside of your wrist, almost curious, feeling your pulse racing under his fingers. “You’re playing nurse for the man who killed your friends’ buddy.” His eyes flicked over your face, reading you. “Matt’s idea?”
“Yeah.” Your voice stayed steady even as heat crawled up your neck. “He had to take Karen somewhere else, you know, before she actually shot you.”
“Smart. She’s got fire. You’re different.” He tilted his head against the thin pillow, still looking up at you like you were the only thing in the room worth focusing on, not that there was much else. The cuffs clinked softly as he tested them without real effort. “And you’ve got that look. You've got your own deal. I’m sure you’ve got a motive of your own to keep me alive.”
You swallowed. The temptation was there again, thick and ugly. All it took was one set of keys to unlock the cuffs. He could slip out, disappear into the city, and do what Matt won’t: end Fisk.
Fisk who sent men to drag you into an alley and put two bullets in your torso because you asked the wrong questions.
You’re tempted to reach for the keys, but Matt’s words echoed right after: killing Fisk now would only make him a martyr. Create ten more Fisk’s in his place.
You hated how reasonable it sounded. You hated how much you still wanted the other, less morally correct option.
“I’m here to keep you alive until Matt gets back,” you said quietly. “That’s the plan.”
His smile widened by degrees until it was a quiet, knowing thing. He loosened his hold on your wrist, though his hand remained heavy against your skin. He sat up with a stifled groan, the movement stiff and careful, you watched his expression tighten, knowing exactly how much those staples must be pulling at his side.
“You’re lying. I can see it in your eyes. Part of you wants me walking out that door, part of you is wondering what I’d do to Fisk if I did.” He licked his dry lips, gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before returning. “I’m good at finishing things. Ask Foggy.”
The name hit you like a slap. You twisted your wrist free from his grip, standing up fast. Your hand hovered near the gun at your hip. “Don’t.”
“You know I could take him out.”
“You won’t.”
Dex watched you, calm as ever, even while restrained, bleeding, unarmed and in a clear disadvantage. “Why not? You know what he is. What he almost did to you.” His voice softened, almost gentle. It was fucking eerie coming from someone who holds no regard for feelings. “I’m still balancing the scales. You could help tip them.”
“Who told you about that?”
“I know Fisk tried to get you killed in an alley like a dog that needed to be put down, and I know you’re not happy about that.” He kept talking, and you’re not sure if he’s trying to taunt you or if he’s acknowledging what you went through when no one else seemed to be able to.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do,” he debated, rightfully so. “I know he sent his men to kill you, your friends know this too, and yet, the man responsible for it is walking around still, free and as the mayor. And… What are your friends doing? Nothing”.
“Don’t.” You tried interrupting him, but he kept going. The gift that keeps on giving.
“They won’t deal with him themselves, and they won’t let me deal with him either—“
“Stop it,” You said, more firmly this time. Without realizing it, your body leaned forward, one knee bending onto the edge of the mattress as you hovered over him, drawn in by his words despite yourself.
“—Which means that your friends are doing nothing to avenge you, you almost got killed and they did nothing.”
“Shut up!” You finally gave in to his provocations and had a reaction, which is what he probably wanted. Your voice came out sharper than intended, breathier, the space between you now dangerously small.
The air felt too thick. You could hear your own breathing, could see the way his chest rose and fell right beneath you, the hard line of muscle leading down to his v line, covered by his sweatpants.
He noticed where your eyes went and tilted his head, shifting his hips deliberately.
That made you draw the gun at him.
“Enough.” The barrel leveled at his chest. “Not another word.”
Dex’s eyes flicked up to yours again. That slow, crooked smile returned, the bastard was having fun despite everything. “You’re not gonna shoot me,”
You kept the gun steady, still leaning over him, hovering close enough that the heat of his body rose up to meet you. You had no intention of pulling the trigger, this is not the way you did things, but the weight of the gun felt necessary.
You held his gaze. He looked up at you from the bed, that intense, unblinking stare locking onto yours, with slightly parted lips, eyes dark and focused only on you. The silence stretched, thick and dangerous.
One twist of the key… Let him go. Let him finish it. The thought slithered back in, hot and treacherous, twisting right alongside the sharp awareness of how close you were to him, with your knee planted on the mattress, body leaning over his, gun steady between you. His warmth radiated up through the thin space that remained. You could smell the faint copper of blood, sweat, and something darker underneath.
Your eyes betrayed you. They dropped.
He was hard. Painfully, obviously hard beneath the thin gray sweats, the thick outline straining against the fabric as he sat upright on the bed, using his strong arms to steady himself, legs slightly spread.
You scoffed, half-shocked. “Seriously?”
Dex followed your gaze. For two full seconds his face flickered, genuine mortification flashing across those sharp, blood-crusted features. His ears went pink.
“You’re very close, and I’m still a man,” he said, voice low and rough, almost apologetic for that split second before the smugness crept back in.
You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “A weird man, yes. Who gets hard when someone points a gun at him?”
He tilted his head, that unsettling little smile returning even as his breathing grew heavier. Oh.
“Guess so.” His tongue slowly wet his lower lip. “Yet I’m not getting slapped… So what does that say about you?”
“Shut up.”
Oh, that got him smirking.
The gun stayed pointed at his chest, your finger nowhere near the trigger. Your eyes kept flicking down despite yourself. You kept noticing how the thin gray sweats tented obscenely, how the thick, heavy line of his cock strained against the fabric, a small wet spot already darkening the material right at the head.
Dex didn’t look away from your face. His breathing had deepened, each inhale pulling at the fresh bandages you’d just taped down. The cuffs rattled faintly as he tested them again, not hard enough to break free, but enough that the metal bit into his wrists. His gaze dropped to your mouth for a long second, then back up, pupils blown wide and dark.
“You’re not gonna shoot me,” he said again, quieter this time. “And you’re not gonna walk away either. Not with the way you’re looking at me.”
Your free hand moved before you could stop it. You fisted your fingers in his short hair at the nape of his neck and yanked his head back sharply, exposing the long line of his throat. A low, involuntary sound escaped him— not quite a groan, but close— his Adam’s apple bobbed. His eyes stayed locked on yours, pupils flaring even wider at the rough treatment. He didn’t fight it. If anything, his hips shifted forward a fraction, cock twitching visibly in the sweats.
“Tell me to stop,” you said, voice low and steady, searching his face.
The moral storm still raged in your chest: Matt’s trust, Karen’s grief, Fisk’s smug face while his men dragged you. But right now, with Dex’s pulse hammering under your grip and the way he was staring at you,, it all felt distant.
Dex’s tongue darted out, wetting his lower lip again. His stare never wavered. “Don’t stop.”
The words were simple. No hesitation.
You leaned in and crushed your mouth to his, he was already meeting you halfway.
The kiss was messy, desperate, teeth clashing because he surged up to meet you as much as the cuffs and his injuries allowed. His lips were a little dry from dehydration and blood, but he kissed like he was starving, open-mouthed, tongue sliding against yours with surprising heat. The kiss tasted like the metallic taste of blood mixed with salt and something unmistakably him. He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating against your tongue as he instinctively tried to raise his hands to touch you. The cuffs clinked hard against the sides of the bed frame, metal biting into skin, but he didn’t stop pulling, didn’t stop chasing your mouth.
You tugged his hair harder, tilting his head exactly how you wanted, and he let you, melted into it with another low, hungry noise. His cock jumped against the fabric, hips rolling up in a helpless little thrust that made the sweats stretch obscenely.
When you finally broke the kiss for air, a thin string of spit connected your lips for a second before breaking. His eyes were half-lidded, lips shiny and swollen, that unsettling little smile gone, replaced by raw want.
“Fuck,” he rasped, voice wrecked. His gaze flicked down to where your knee was still planted on the mattress between his spread thighs, then back up to your mouth. “Do that again.”
You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you holstered the gun—not trusting yourself with it anymore— and climbed fully onto the bed, straddling his lap. The moment your weight settled over his hips, his cock pressed hot and rigid against your core through the layers of clothing. He hissed through his teeth, head staying upright as his hips bucked up once, grinding into you with surprising force for someone cuffed and bleeding.
You shoved his sweats down just enough to free his cock. It slapped heavy and thick against his lower belly, flushed dark, the head already slick with pre-cum that beaded at the slit and dripped down the shaft. He was big, longer than you expected, with a slight upward curve and a thick vein running along the underside.
Your hand wrapped around him without preamble, but you didn’t stroke him properly. Not yet. You kept your grip loose and torturously slow, sliding your palm from root to tip in long, dragging pulls, thumb barely grazing the sensitive head each time. Every time his hips twitched up chasing more friction, you eased off just enough to deny him the pleasure.
Dex’s breath hitched, eyes fluttering but staying locked on your face. His pupils were huge, dark, and when you gave one particularly slow twist around the head, smearing pre-cum everywhere before pulling your hand almost all the way off, a low, wrecked sound escaped him. He loved it. The denial, the suffering. You could see it in the way his abs clenched, in the desperate little jerks of his hips that he couldn’t fully control.
You leaned in close, lips brushing his ear as you edged him again, stroking just fast enough to make his cock throb in your fist before slowing to a crawl. “This is what you get for taunting me,” you whispered, voice rough. “For knowing exactly what I want and dangling it in front of me.”
He didn’t beg. He just stared at your lips, hungry and unblinking, chest heaving. When you squeezed tighter on the upstroke and then stopped completely, letting his cock twitch uselessly in the air, his wrists yanked hard at the cuffs on either side of him. The metal rattled violently against the bed frame, but he couldn’t reach you. He couldn’t touch your thighs, couldn’t grab your hips. All he could do was take it, sitting upright, muscles straining, cock leaking steadily over your fingers.
“Fuck… yeah,” he rasped, voice low and rough, almost reverent. His gaze never left your mouth. “Keep going. Just like that.”
You stroked him again, faster this time, fist gliding slick and tight until his thighs started to tremble and his breathing turned ragged, and then you stopped, pulling your hand away entirely. His cock bobbed angrily against his stomach, flushed and dripping, and Dex let out a shaky exhale, head tilting back slightly before snapping forward again to watch you.
The moral battle roared back louder than ever while you tortured him like this. Matt had asked you to keep Dex alive— locked up, controlled— so he wouldn’t kill Fisk and turn the bastard into a martyr. Karen wanted him dead for Foggy, her hands already stained enough by Wesley. And you… you wanted Fisk gone more than almost anything. The alley, the bullets tearing through you, the fear… it still woke you up some nights. Dex would do it. You knew it in your bones. If you uncuffed him right now and whispered the words, he’d walk out of here and end Wilson Fisk without a second thought.
He’d love it. He’d do it for the sport, for the balance, and maybe— just maybe—a little for you.
But Matt’s voice echoed in your head: I cannot let her kill him and do something that will haunt her forever. And you knew he was right. Killing Fisk now would only create ten more monsters in his place.
Still, with Dex sitting there cuffed to the sides of the bed, cock throbbing in your hand, eyes dark with want and that eerie calm acceptance… The temptation to just let him go afterward was thicker than ever.
You gave him one more slow, punishing stroke—tight, twisting, dragging your thumb hard over the leaking slit— then stopped again, watching his face twist with frustrated pleasure.
“Enough,” you finally growled, voice breaking with your own need. You stripped your pants and underwear off in one rough motion, kicking them aside. Then you climbed back over him properly, lining his cock up with your entrance. You were soaked, already embarrassingly wet from the power, the wrongness, the sheer intensity of edging him while he sat there helpless and loving every second of it.
You sank down onto him in one slow, relentless slide.
The stretch burned in the best way, his thick cock splitting you open as you took every inch. Dex’s head stayed upright, eyes rolling back for a second as a guttural groan ripped from his chest. “So fucking tight— Jesus Christ.”
You bottomed out with a moan, hips flush against his. For a moment you just sat there, letting yourself adjust, feeling him throb deep inside you while he remained sitting, cuffed hands useless at his sides. Then, when it stopped being too much, you started moving, slow, grinding rolls of your hips that dragged his cock against every sensitive spot inside you.
His hands were useless, cuffed tight to the sides of the bed, so all he could do was take it. Take every roll of your hips, every clench of your pussy around him. His abs flexed with every thrust, the bandages on his side darkening further, but he didn’t care. He just stared up at you with raw hunger, lips parted, occasionally bucking up to meet you when he could, the cuffs rattling with each desperate pull.
You braced one hand on his sweat-slick chest, the other fisting his short hair again as you started riding him in earnest. Slow at first, then faster with deep, grinding rolls of your hips that dragged every thick inch of his cock along your walls, the wet squelch of your soaked pussy swallowing him obscenely loud in the quiet room.
That should’ve sobered you up, it didn’t.
Dex stayed sitting upright, cuffed hands useless at his sides, but he didn’t stay passive. Every time you leaned closer, chasing the friction on your clit against his pelvis, he craned his neck forward with a low, hungry sound. His lips found your throat, hot and open-mouthed, sucking messy marks into the skin just below your jaw while his tongue dragged greedily along your pulse point. When you slammed down taking him to the hilt, he groaned against your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot hard enough to sting before soothing it with his tongue.
“Fuck- so wet,” he rasped between kisses, voice wrecked and rough, lips brushing your collarbone as you rode him faster. “Can feel you dripping down… squeezing me so fucking tight every time you sink down.”
His hips bucked up to meet your downward strokes as much as the pain and cuffs allowed, the motion limited but forceful, driving his cock deeper with every thrust. The cuffs rattled violently against the sides of the bed with each desperate yank, metal biting into his wrists, veins standing out along his forearms as he strained uselessly to touch you. He wanted to grab your hips, to pull you down harder, to feel your skin under his palms so badly that his fingers curled into tight fists, tugging harder every time your pussy clenched around him.
You ground down in tight circles, the head of his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you with every roll, your clit rubbing slick and insistent against the base of his shaft. Dex’s head tilted, lips latching onto the side of your neck again, sucking hard as a broken grunt vibrated against your skin. His breath came in hot, ragged pants between each messy kiss, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your sweat.
“Harder,” he muttered against your throat, the word half-command, half-plea, but he didn’t beg, just kept staring up at you with those blown pupils whenever you pulled back enough to meet his gaze. Another violent tug at the cuffs made the bed frame creak as you bounced on his cock, the wet slap of your ass meeting his thighs growing louder, filthier.
Your walls fluttered around his thick length, the stretch burning so good as you took him deeper, feeling every vein and ridge as you rode him without mercy. Dex’s abs clenched visibly under your palm, and he groaned louder when you traced them with your fingers, mouth chasing your neck again, licking a broad stripe up the column of your throat before biting down lightly, hips stuttering up to fuck into you from below.
The pleasure coiled tighter, your pussy gripping him like a vice with every downstroke, slick sounds echoing as you slammed yourself onto his cock over and over. Dex’s breathing turned into shallow, desperate grunts against your skin, his cock twitching and pulsing hot inside you, the head nudging your cervix with every brutal grind.
When you came, it hit like a freight train. A good one. Your pussy clamping down rhythmically around his throbbing cock, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as you ground down hard, riding out every pulsing wave while your nails dug into his chest.
Dex followed right after with a low, “Fuck—”, his hips jerking up as much as he could, cock pulsing deep inside you as he spilled thick, hot ropes of cum, flooding your pussy while he stayed sitting upright, lips pressed open-mouthed against your neck through the whole thing.
The room fell quiet except for your shared, ragged breathing.
You stayed there for a long moment, still impaled on his softening cock, both of you slick with sweat and cum and a little blood from his reopened wounds. Your fingers loosened in his hair, stroking through the short strands almost gently now.
Dex’s eyes were half-closed, but he was still watching you, only that now that intense, pale stare had softened just a fraction by the afterglow. His voice, when it came, was rough and quiet.
“…You still gonna keep me locked up?”
You didn’t answer right away. The moral storm was already creeping back in, quieter now, but still there. Matt’s request. Karen’s rage. Fisk still breathing.
But the way Dex had looked at you when he said “don’t stop,” the way he’d yanked at those cuffs like he’d die if he couldn’t touch you… you knew one thing for certain.
He would do it if you asked, he’d walk out of here and put a bullet in Fisk’s head without blinking.
And a dark, treacherous part of you was starting to wonder how long you could keep pretending you didn’t want that, too.
tracing benjamin poindexter's scars, letting him be vulnerable for the first time in a long, long time.
You found him in the quiet. Always in the quiet.
The apartment was dim, save for the low glow from the kitchen light bleeding across the floor. Rain tapped gently against the windows, nothing torrential—just the kind that hums. The kind that made you forget to speak.
He stood with his back to you at first. Shirtless. Motionless.
The harsh scar that ran the length of his spine gleamed like a burnished line in the low light. You could see where flesh met steel—where skin failed to hide what had been done to him. The surgical precision of it. The violent reason for it.
His arms were loose at his sides. Fingers twitching.
“Ben,” you said gently, not even trying to mask your breath, your care. “You okay?”
His head dipped.
He never answered quickly, and tonight he didn’t at all.
So you walked. Slowly, barefoot, crossing the space between you. He didn’t move. Not when your hand touched his shoulder. Not when your fingers slid down the bare slope of his upper back, hesitating just above the long, vertical scar.
“I didn’t mean to—” you paused, unsure what excuse you were about to give. What reason you’d needed to approach him. Maybe you didn’t need one.
His breath hitched, barely noticeable.
So you traced it.
That long, brutal seam of memory down his back, the one Fisk had given him with promises and metal. You followed the scar with your index finger, slow and reverent, feeling every uneven ridge and stitch. It wasn’t just a scar—it was proof. Of survival. Of control ripped from him and then bolted back into place by force.
He still hadn’t moved.
Your palm flattened gently against his side, just above another scar. A jagged one. You’d seen it before—once, under poor lighting and tense circumstances. But now, he didn’t flinch when you found it again.
“How many times?” you whispered. “Did they cut you open and expect you to keep going?”
He exhaled, and it shook.
Then you kissed it. Softly. The one on his ribs.
Your lips lingered.
Another scar—slightly lower, like a gash from the past that never closed right. You kissed that one too, slower. He twitched.
He still didn’t speak. But his chest… it moved. Uneven, trembling slightly with every breath. You looked up—just barely—and saw his eyes through the reflection in the glass.
Half-lidded.
Pupils wide.
Mouth parted.
He looked like he was drowning. But not the kind of drowning that comes with thrashing. The kind that came when you let yourself sink. When it didn’t hurt anymore, not like it used to. When surrender didn’t feel like losing.
You pressed closer, your body brushing his side, arms wrapping slowly around his waist. Careful not to trap him. Careful never to take—only give. You moved your lips to his spine this time. Lower.
It was warm, despite everything. Human still, in its own way.
His head tilted forward, neck tense. The cords in his arms flexed—but not in preparation for violence.
You kissed again.
And again.
And again.
Small, reverent motions. Mapping every inch of pain with love. Not with pity—he’d never stand for that. No, you kissed him like someone who saw him. The broken parts. The engineered parts. The quiet rage beneath his skin that no longer burned as hot but still never quite left.
When your arms slid higher, one hand resting on the center of his chest from behind, you could feel the beat of his heart. Racing. Loud in the silence.
“I’m still here,” you murmured against the back of his shoulder. “You are too.”
He turned then. Not fast, but deliberate. He faced you, chest heaving now with every inhale like he’d just surfaced from that sea he’d been lost in. His eyes searched yours. Wild, quiet desperation. Like he was waiting to be told this wasn’t real.
You placed your hand right over his heart. “You made it back, Ben.”
A muscle in his jaw clenched. His lips trembled.
He didn’t say a word.
But his hands found yours. One curled around your wrist, grounding himself. The other landed softly on your cheek, fingers feather-light, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to touch you. Like he was afraid you'd vanish.
You didn’t.
You kissed the last scar you could see—a gash across his cheekbone. And you held him, forehead to forehead, until the world slowed.
Until the metal spine wasn’t the only thing keeping him standing.
Synopsis: You have captured Poindexters' attention. Always, he waited for you, watched and listened for your arrival to the shared complex. This time, he caught you waiting in the snow for your delivery driver. And who was he to leave you all alone?
Warnings: Brief mention of stalking, light obsession, watching, pining. Fluff! So much fluff.
Pairing: Benjamin Poindexter / Reader
The snow had been falling since before noon, whisper-quiet and relentless. By six o’clock, the city had turned to static—blanketed cars, muffled traffic, and sidewalks packed in white silence. You stood at the top of the apartment building’s front steps, bundled in a thick blue sweater with the sleeves tugged over your hands, peering out into the icy swirl with expectant eyes. Somewhere out there was your pizza. Probably lost. Maybe frozen.
Ben had been standing by his door for five minutes.
He hadn’t meant to. Really. He was just heading out to grab his mail—something he already did three times a day now, ever since you moved in two months ago. Not to stalk. He wasn’t like that. He was just...paying attention. Just in case you needed something. Like protection. Or salt for your stairs. Or someone to talk to when you were walking back from the subway with your headphones in and that look in your eyes that meant today had been a lot.
But right now? You weren’t even looking at him. You were watching the snowfall like it was something sacred, nose pink from the cold, bouncing slightly on your toes like it might speed the delivery up. You looked ridiculous. And beautiful. And warm, somehow, even standing in the chill.
Dex’s throat felt tight.
Your sweater was oversized again—he liked when you wore those, how they made your hands disappear and clung just enough to your shape when you moved. This one had little flecks of silver woven into the threads. He’d noticed them when he passed you in the stairwell that morning. Now the hallway light caught them again, soft and shimmery like frost.
He had no business looking at you like this.
You weren’t for him. You were for good people. People who didn’t have to clench their fists just to stay calm. People who didn’t sit in the dark at night trying not to think about the way your shampoo smelled when the wind caught your hair on the balcony. He wasn’t supposed to want anything.
But God, you made it so hard.
Especially when you turned suddenly, catching him there—standing with the mailbox open like he’d forgotten what he was doing.
You blinked, then smiled. “Hey, neighbor.”
Dex swallowed. “Hey.”
Your cheeks puffed a little as you breathed into your palms for warmth. “I think my pizza’s dead in a snowbank. Starting to lose hope.”
He smiled faintly, trying not to let it reach his eyes too much. “Need a search party?”
You gave a little laugh. “Only if you come with a shovel and thermal goggles.”
Dex hesitated. Then stepped forward, slow and careful. His boots didn’t make a sound on the carpet. You always smelled like cinnamon in the winter. And he was close enough now to see the flutter of your lashes where snow had started to collect on them.
“You really shouldn’t stand out here too long,” he said gently, voice low. “You’re freezing.”
“I’m okay,” you said, and nudged him with your elbow, teasing. “Just being dramatic.”
He could feel the echo of your touch long after it was gone.
“Still,” he murmured, shrugging out of his own black coat. “Here.”
You blinked. “Ben, no—I’m just waiting—”
He didn’t say anything. Just held it out, eyes fixed on the pink of your nose and the way you were starting to shiver beneath that sweater. Not for long. But enough.
You stared at him for a beat.
Then slowly, you took it.
He hadn’t expected you to put it on right there in front of him, but you did—slipping into the warmth of it with a quiet sigh, tugging it around you until it swallowed the sweater whole.
“...Wow,” you mumbled. “Okay. This is really warm. Like illegally warm.”
Dex smiled, barely. “Military-grade.”
You looked up at him with those eyes of yours—mischievous, unguarded—and he swore his heart did something it shouldn’t have. Something not normal. Not safe.
“Thank you,” you said softly, then leaned against the rail again. “You’re always so nice.”
He didn’t know what to say to that.
So he stood with you.
Waited for your pizza with snow collecting on his hair and hands shoved in his pockets like it might keep all the things he wanted to do—to you, for you, because of you—from showing on his face.
And when the delivery car finally came, skidding through the snow and crunching to a stop on the curb, Dex didn’t say anything else. He just opened the door for you like he always would.
Summary : You are not the only person hunting Anti-Vigilante Task Force. Luckily, your “competition” is Benjamin Poindexter.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x vigilante! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Reader is ex-SHIELD, sexual themes, Freak4Freak, violence, death, blood, injury/gunshot wound, emotional trauma/grief, slight mention of cannabis use, brief mention of having suicidal thoughts, codependency, biting/blood play, Dex has you in a headlock as one point. Mention of surgery. Dex finds out he likes pain and learns sympathy in the same story lol. Fluff, angst. Set between DDBA season 1 and season 2. (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 9.9k
Requested by : Anon
Notes : Most of the fic is inspired by the song Kitty Sucker by Frank Carter and the Rattlesnakes. Credit to this post by @truestaim for inspiring the more intimate scenes <3 Enjoy!
You didn’t meet Dex in a bar, or on a dating app, or on a night out, like any modern person would.
You met him at work.
Well, “work.”
Your work just happened to be ridding the streets from legally protected by emotionally corrupt Anti-Vigilante Task Force agents.
They weren’t exactly hard to track and they weren’t subtle when they swept through a place. They always used black gear, textbook formations, masks on, and a false sense of “order.” You’d been tracking them for weeks, picking them off where you could, dismantling routes, breaking patterns. Not out of heroism, really. You just didn’t like being hunted.
And they were definitely hunting you.
You were an “Asset Gone Rogue.” At least, that’s what you were in their files.
In truth, you were a former SHIELD operative. When the organisation collapsed, you were offered a government contract. You refused. After all, you were done working for people, for agendas. People are corrupt. Agendas were worse. The only person you trusted was yourself.
Because you refused, because apparently, if you weren’t loyal to them you were a threat, the CIA and FBI had labeled you as a high-risk individual, and you knew they monitored the hell out of you.
You didn’t mind, and you had nothing to be scared about. You had been on your best behaviour. You had been living a normal life since 2014. At least, as normal as it could be. Aliens still invaded, people still disappeared, the president turned into a rage monster, and you could be taken hostage by your own void of a mind any time. But hey. Privileges, right? At least you were still alive, and nobody was out to get you.
Until Fisk became mayor.
That’s when your profile got reactivated. Fisk saw many unaccounted for “assets” as a threat. So they slapped the label “vigilante” on you and processed your arrest warrant.
The first night they tried to get you, they shot up your favourite bar. Two bartenders got caught in the crossfire.
They were your friends.
Layla gave you staff discounts and went to concerts with you. Darren had a roommate who works in a dispensary. He’d get them for cheap and you would all get high on a rooftop, chatting shit about life and how absurd the existence of your consciousness was. You’d told them that one day, when they had saved enough money to open up their own bar, they’d need a bouncer. Private security was important, and you promised to volunteer.
Layla would laugh and ask, “You? C’mon. You’re not stopping nobody from coming in.”
Darren would say, “My cousin’s like 6’5. He can do the job.”
You’d laugh, because they didn’t really know your past. They didn’t know your skills and what you had done to survive. They didn’t know the blood on your hands.
You’d take a drag out of the blunt. “Trust me, man. I’m scary as fuck.”
They’d laugh and say, “If you say so.”
But now they were six feet underground because they were caught in the crossfire meant for you.
And no, you had never intended to go back to the life of being judge, jury, and executioner. But your friends were fucking dead. So if they want a vigilante, they’ll get a vigilante.
Your only advice to them: be careful what you wish for.
Because if there’s one thing you’re good at doing with your hands, it’s killing for sport.
—
What you didn’t expect when you started to hunt them… was competition.
On the first night, you found the warehouse already ruined. Knives where there shouldn’t have been knives. Pencils where they shouldn’t be pencils. And glass where they shouldn’t be glass, all stuck in lethal ways on the bodies of Task Force.
You crouched beside one, studying the entry wound left by what looked like a stapler.
You smiled a little. “‘M not the only one, huh?”
—
The second time you tracked AVTF agents, you found them alive.
It must be my lucky day, you thought to yourself, sliding your brass knuckles on.
Before long, you were seeing red, clashing metal against bone. You had knocked out the breath out of their lungs. The dull, sickening rhythm of a fight that had already been decided, you knew the pendulum was swinging in your favour.
One agent swung wide after you disarmed him. He was sloppy.
You stepped in.
Your knuckles cracked across his cheek with a sharp snap, his head whipping to the side before his body followed. He dropped hard, and he didn't move after that.
Another came at you from behind.
You didn’t turn.
You just shifted your weight and drove your elbow back into his ribs. You felt a crack; then pivoted and planted your fist straight into his jaw.
He folded.
You exhaled, rolling your shoulders like this was nothing more than a warm-up. Blood slicked your knuckles, dripping in lines down your fingers. You flexed once, admiring the work.
The man with the broken ribs, unfortunately, was still alive. He reached for a gun, only to be stopped by a throwing knife sent the direction of his neck. In response, he let out a blood-curdling scream.
You, however, was the one to take the knife off him, taking the pressure off the wound and letting him abruptly bleed out. You took the knife and sheathed it in one of your pockets.
Shiny, you thought. It’s mine now.
“Messy,” you heard a voice say from the darkness.
You tilted your head. Then, slowly, you turned.
The man you saw stood at the mouth of the alley like he’d always been there.
He was tall and lean, but the suit caught your attention first.
It was dark blue with silver accents. Sleek, almost seamless against his frame. Not tactical in the bulky, obvious way AVTF agents wore theirs. This was built for movement, not protection. A mask covered his face, but he was not concealing his identity. It was made evident when he took off his mask, presumably so you could get a better look at him. His hair was sandy blond or light brown, you couldn’t tell in the lighting. He had a scar on his cheek, but you kinda liked it. It suited him.
What unsettled you, however, was how his eyes tracked you.
Your lips curled into a smile before you could stop it.
“Oh?” you said, almost amused. “You got notes?”
His eyes dropped to your hands. To the brass knuckles, slick with fresh blood, catching what little light filtered into the alley.
“You were in my line of fire,” he said bluntly.
You let out a huff of laughter, glancing around at the bodies scattered across the pavement before looking back at him. “I’m pretty sure I was in the middle of my kill.”
To emphasize it, you stepped back, stomping hard onto the wrist of the last agent trying to crawl away.
You felt bone crunch under your heel.
You didn’t even look down when you finished it, dropping a quick, brutal strike with your knuckles that silenced him.
You lifted your hand slightly, tilting it so he could see the blood coating the metal clearer. “You see something unfinished?”
His eyes followed the movement again, but ended up at your face. “They were mine.”
Before you could stop yourself, you stepped toward him. Close enough to test, not close enough to threaten.
“Well.” Your head tilted. “You should’ve come down here and gotten your hands dirty with me.”
“I don’t need to be close,” he replied.
“Mm.” You hummed, unconvinced, dragging your gaze back up to meet his. “Shame. You’re missing out.”
“And you probably compensate for your terrible aim with proximity,” he said, stepping forward. You could see the depth of his eyes now, the exact shade of it. And they were beautifully hazel, like universes were swimming in them.
“It’s more fun,” you shrugged. “I like it when I feel it.”
You saw the smallest shift at the corner of his mouth. A smile.
“Oh,” you said with a cynical grin. “There it is. You do have a personality.”
The tension didn’t ease, but it changed. It was less of a standoff, more like respect being built in real time.
“Got a name?” you asked casually, like you weren’t standing in the middle of a massacre flirting with a stranger.
A fraction of a second passed before he answered. “Dex.”
It fit him.
You nodded once, like you approved. “Dex,” you repeated, tasting it.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “You?”
You clicked your tongue, shaking your head. “Tsk. Tsk.” You stepped a little closer. “I’m not that easy.”
Dex managed a real laugh. “I didn’t think you were.”
That sounded less like a dismissal, more like interest. It was the first time in a long time that Dex was interested in something he didn’t understand.
—
You kept running into each other.
Three days later, he had already finished circling the perimeter of a Task Force safe house you planned on infiltrating when you got there.
Two agents dropped before you even stepped into the scene, and you knew who it was immediately, and his methods were bound to flush them out of hiding.
You barely had time to crack your knuckles before an agent rushed at you, thinking you were responsible.
You handled him up close. It was quick and brutal. Four more came up to you and you handled them, too. Dex handled the rest.
When it was over, you glanced at the bodies, then at him. “You stalking me?”
“You’re predictable,” he replied.
You smirked. “And yet, here I am. Still alive.”
“…For now,” he said. There was something almost playful in it.
A week later, you found yourself dockside on a shipping yard, falling into place with him. At this point, you’ve started actively looking for each other before fighting.
This time, you moved without speaking, like you’d done this a hundred times before.
You drew them in. Dex picked them off.
At one point, you ducked just as a knife flew past your ear and dropped the man behind you.
You didn’t even look.
“Gotta be careful,” he called.
“Relax,” you shot back. “I trust you.”
Dex looked down, unsure of what to do with that information. “You shouldn’t,” he finally said.
You grinned. “Too late.”
By the time it happened again, it was a pattern.
You’d show up. He’d already be there. Or vice versa.
You caught his eye across the street once, both of you watching the same target.
You tilted your head as you fell into step behind him. “You gonna share?”
“Depends,” he shrugged.
“On?”
“Whether you slow me down.”
You stepped closer, just enough to blur the line. “Or speed you up.”
That got you a sweet smile. “We’ll see.”
And somewhere between the blood, the banter, and the way neither of you ever missed when it mattered—
“The enemy of my enemy…,” you trailed off once while glancing at him, as another body hit the ground.
Dex eyes locked on to yours.
“…is useful,” he finished. Whether or not he meant it, is a different question altogether.
After that meeting, you finally gave him your name.
—
Dex was already there on the rooftop of the insurance building when you arrived.
He was perched at the edge like he belonged to the skyline more than the ground, body angled forward, rifle steady. The city moved below him in noise and chaos, but up here, around him, there was only control.
“You’re late,” he said, not even turning.
He learned your footsteps, you realised. How flattering.
You landed behind him, boots scraping against gravel, rolling your shoulder like you hadn’t just sprinted across half the block. “Just got back from a hot date.”
That got a pause. Was he… jealous?
“Really?”
You gave him a deadpan look he couldn’t see. “Yeah. With candlelight and classical music. Maybe a little murder after dessert.”
His head tilted just slightly.
You breathed out, waving it off as you stepped closer. “Of course not. I don’t have time for dates.” You huffed, almost amused. “My laundry, though? That needed folding.”
As if relieved, you saw his shoulder relax, just a little.
“Target’s moving,” he said.
You leaned beside him, peering over the ledge. Three agents in a tight formation. It was predictable.
“Mm,” you hummed. “You taking the shot, or do you want me to make it interesting?”
“I’ve got it.”
You stayed anyway, close enough to feel the intensity rolling off him. The way everything in him narrowed down to a single point. It was… fascinating. A different kind of violence than yours.
His finger almost tightened on the trigger when you saw a light flickering across the street. On the opposite rooftop.
Your stomach dropped. This was a trap.
“Dex—”
The shot was fired through the air, and it was not his.
Your body moved before your brain caught up, instinct overriding logic. You lunged forward, slamming into him hard enough to knock his aim off just as the bullet tore through the space where his head had been, and into your shoulder.
It felt like impact, like it slammed straight through you, stole the air from your lungs, hollowed you out from the inside.
Your breath hitched as your body folded into his, vision staggering at the edges.
“Shit!” Dex caught you before you dropped, one arm locking around you like a reflex. He looked to the opposite rooftop, and that coward of an agent had gone. They probably saw that they got you and took it as a win, leaving to safety and decided to take him down another day.
Or maybe he was waiting for a cleaner shot.
“What did you do?” He demanded, almost a sneer.
You tried to laugh, but it came out thin and uneven. “You’re welcome?”
Blood was already soaking through your side, warm and slick, sticking fabric to skin. You could feel it spreading with every heartbeat.
Another shot rang out.
Oh, so that bastard was still there.
Dex knew he had to go now.
His grip tightened on you as he shifted, adjusted, fired, like the world had narrowed down to a single correction.
A body dropped across the street.
“You’re hit,” he said, attention turning back to you.
You huffed weakly. “Wow. Observant.”
Your knees buckled. This time, they didn’t recover. He held you up anyway.
“Why?” he asked.
You blinked, trying to focus on him through the blur creeping into your vision. “What?”
“Why the fuck would you do that?”
You let your head tip slightly, a crooked, strained smile pulling at your lips. “Wow. No ‘thank you’? I’m hurt.”
“You are hurt.”
“Yeah,” you breathed, looking at your wound and thinking oh well. “At least I’ll get a cool scar from it.” Your hand reached up, fingers tracing the healed cut on his cheek gently, impossibly intimately, “like yours.”
His teeth tightened and his grip shifted, almost like he was anchoring you in place. Almost as if he was scared to lose you.
What a foreign feeling, indeed.
“Stay with me,” he said.
You let out a small, shaky laugh. “That bad, huh?”
“Stay. With me.” You’ve never heard him sound so… serious.
Your fingers curled weakly into his jacket. “…Alright.”
For once, you didn’t fight him. You didn’t joke or deflect.
Your head dipped slightly forward, brushing closer to him as your strength started to slip in uneven waves. “You owe me,” you murmured.
“What?” He asked, as if he couldn’t believe where your priorities lay right now.
You managed the ghost of a grin. “Saving your life. Obviously.”
“I didn’t ask you to,” he managed, exasperated.
You exhaled, breath catching halfway. “Yeah… well. I did.”
He adjusted you again, more carefully this time, like he was suddenly aware of every inch of you he was holding.
“I’m getting you out of here,” he said.
You tilted your head just enough to look at him, closer than you had ever been before.
His eyes weren’t steady anymore.
“C-Careful,” you managed, voice fraying at the edges. “You’re s-starting to sound like you care.”
Dex tried not to look at you, not to panic. But then, he simply said, “I do.”
Your breath hitched, not from the pain this time.
“…Huh,” you whispered.
And for once, as you lost consciousness, head lolling back, you had nothing to say back.
—
You came back to the land of the living slowly.
You didn’t just wake up all at once. It started with fragments. From the faint hum of electricity, to the clean sheets beneath you. You weren’t at a hospital— there were no sirens, no shouting, no chaos, just… peace and quiet.
Your eyes open, just a little. You saw the ceiling first. It was clean. No cracks, no stains.
And it was definitely not your ceiling.
You shifted slightly, and pain flared sharp enough to drag a groan out of you. Your hand instinctively moved to your shoulder, fingers brushing over a clean, tight bandage, wrapped meticulously well.
Your eyes drifted, taking in the room. It was aggressively minimal. It had a bed, an armchair, and a tv. The kitchen, on the other side of the studio apartment, was spotless. Everything was placed with intention, like nothing existed here unless it served a purpose.
“You decorate like a serial killer,” you muttered, voice rough from disuse.
“You’re awake,” Dex said. He was standing by the window, half-turned toward you, like he’d been watching the city and listening for you at the same time.
You let your head fall back against the pillow. “Was hoping I died. This is disappointing.”
You could tell he was rolling his eyes, but he managed a chuckle. “Tragic.”
You could feel his attention on you as you turned your head slightly, meeting his eyeline. “…How long?”
“Eleven hours and forty-three minutes.”
“Mm.” You swallowed, throat dry. “You carry me all the way here?”
“Yes.”
A faint smirk tugged at your lips. “Didn’t know you cared that much.”
Dex shook his head, but he gave no indication of confirming or denying your theory.
You pushed yourself up to your elbows, wincing as your body protested. You tapped the space on his bed. “Come here.”
He didn’t move. “Why?” he asked.
You tilted your head, studying him. “I just got shot for you. The least you can do is sit.”
He stopped in his tracks, as if thinking what to make of that request. But in the end, he sat on the edge of the bed, not too close, not too far.
You watched him for a second. “You’re weird,” you said.
“Mmhm,” he managed a laugh.
“At least you’re self-aware.”
You let silence befall you again, but this time it stretched softer.
You leaned back slightly, exhaling through the lingering ache. “You ever get tired of it?”
“Of what?”
“All of it.” You gestured vaguely. “Of this.”
“No,” he said, and it was resolute.
You studied him, like you didn’t quite believe that. “I do,” you admitted quietly.
That earned his attention.
Your gaze drifted to the ceiling again, voice losing its edge. “When I left, I thought that was it. No more orders, no more handlers, no more… being pointed at things and told to make them disappear.”
Your teeth tightened slightly.
“I tried to be normal,” you continued. “Did the whole thing. I had a job, got friends, made a routine.” You managed a faint humorless smile. “Turns out I’m not built for normal.”
Dex didn’t interrupt. In fact, it surprised him just how much he liked listening to you.
“They came after me anyway,” you said. “Didn’t matter that I walked away. To them, I don’t get to just… stop being what they made me.”
“And that is…?” Dex looked at you now.
“A killer,” you replied, sighing, “that’s all I’m good for.”
“Well,” Dex started, and for the first time, you could actually detect the sympathy in his tone, “that makes the two of us.”
You watched him from where you were half-propped against his pillows, arm slung carefully across your middle, bandage still tight around your shoulder. The pain had dulled from unbearable to manageable. It was annoying, but distant. What wasn’t distant was him. The way he sat there, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped, eyes not quite meeting yours.
That was new.
“I knew who you were,” Dex finally admitted, breaking the silence. It was as if this secret had been eating him alive. “Even before you told me your name.”
“That so?” you replied lightly, like it didn’t matter. Like your name hadn’t gotten people killed before.
He nodded once, finally looking at you. “Your MO was familiar."
Your lips curved faintly. “Flattered.”
“I knew I read something about brass knuckles,” he continued. “Used by a close range combat specialist.”
You just watched him, eyes sharper now.
“I was a fed,” he added. “I read your files a few years ago.”
That made you smile properly.
“Yeah?” you said, amused. “How much did you remember?”
“You were on the FBI watchlist,” he said. “It said that you were ex-SHIELD with an impressively high body count. High adaptability. High lethality.” He paused. “It said that you were high risk and… that you were volatile.”
You let out a laugh, shaking your head slightly against the pillow. There was no bitterness in it. No anger, just acceptance. Like he’d told you your eye color.
Dex studied your face, like he was expecting more of a visceral reaction.
“You’re not bothered?” he asked.
“Should I be?” you shot back lightly. “You already kept me alive. Bit late to get scared of me now.”
“I’m not scared of you.”
You smiled at that.
The lights dimmed around you both as the sun set outside, the tension unwinding. You adjusted slightly, wincing as your shoulder protested, and he noticed immediately. His hand twitched as if he almost reached for you before stopping himself.
Your voice dipped, teasing again. “So you knew all along, and you still chose to work with me.”
Dex nodded as if it was never a question.
You raised an eyebrow. “That seems irresponsible for a federal agent.”
“I’m not a federal agent anymore,” he reminded, “and you are not as one dimensional as the files say you are.”
“Mm,” you hummed. “So what am I, then?”
He paused again.
You watched him carefully this time, vulnerability threading through every word.
“Am I a problem?” you asked. “A liability? ‘Enemy of my enemy’ and all that?”
His jaw tightened slightly. “No.”
You tilted your head. “No?”
“No,” he repeated, firmer now.
You let that sit between you for a second before pushing just a little further. “So what am I to you, Dex?”
He was thinking about it, you could tell. You saw it in the way his shoulders stiffened. The way his eyes now locked onto yours like he couldn’t look away even if he wanted to.
“A friend?” you offered. “Is that what this is?”
He didn’t say anything for a long time.
Then he shook his head.“‘Friend’ feels too tame.”
Your eyebrows lifted, interest sparking. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said.
You shifted slightly, leaning just a fraction closer despite the pull in your shoulder. “So what, then?”
For once, he didn’t look like he was calculating. For once, he just… felt present. “You’re…” he started, then stopped, like even he didn’t have a good word for it.
Your lips twitched. “C’mon. You made it this far.”
“You’re the only one I can’t reduce to a target,” He let out a faint exhale, “and the only variable I don’t want to correct.”
Ah. Okay.
Your expression didn’t change much, but it felt like the lens behind your eyes had shifted.
“I think…” you let a smile pull on your lips, “I like that answer better than ‘friend.’”
—
You didn’t go back to “normal” after that. It wasn’t an option anymore.
But you found something else, and it started the first night you cleared yourself to move properly again.
Dex watched the way you stretched, testing your muscles, the way you flexed your fingers like you were reacquainting yourself.
That’s when you caught him staring.
“What?” you asked, a hint of a smirk pulling at your mouth.
“You’re still hurt,” he said.
You scoffed. “I got shot three days ago. Do I look like I have a healing factor?”
“You’re arrogant. One day, it’s going to kill you,” he pointed out, as if your death was something he was dreading.
“You like that about me.” You grinned. The arrogance, you mean.
He paused, thinking. “I like you.”
“Jesus, Dex,” you laughed under your breath. “You’re not supposed to admit that.”
“I don’t see the point in lying to you.”
So now, working together became less of an accident. You stopped pretending you ran into each other. Now, you wouldn’t go into a fight without knowing the other had your six.
—
And afterwards… After the bodies were dropped and blood was spilled, you didn’t walk your separate ways. Instead, you kept each other company.
Which was new.
You’d sit on rooftops, legs dangling over the edge, boots tapping idly against concrete slick with drying blood.
The city stretched out below you.
You leaned back on your hands, breathing steadying after the fight. “You ever think about how weird this is?”
“Not really,” Dex said.
“You should. It’s weird.”
You were met with another bout of comfortable silence. Then, he said, “You talk more after fights.”
You smiled, glancing sideways at him. “Adrenaline. Makes me charming.”
“You’re already… that,” he said, like the word didn’t come naturally.
You blinked. “Is that a compliment?”
“It’s an observation.”
“Mmhm.”
Dex shifted closer. His hand moved, stopping just shy of yours.
You turned your head to realise how close he truly was.
Your eyes dropped to his mouth. He did the same.
Was he… leaning in?
Before you could meet him halfway, the church bells rang.
You flinched back on instinct, breath breaking as the moment broke clean in half. You dragged a hand through your hair, shaking your head slightly. “Timing’s shit.”
Dex didn’t look away. “…Yeah.”
—
Sometimes, you would sit on bridges.
You leaned against the railing, staring down into the dark. Dex stood beside you as you nudged his shoulders with yours.
“You ever think about it?” you asked once, more fragile than usual.
About jumping, you meant, and he knew that. About ending it all.
“Yes,” he said. It surprised him how easily he was admitting this to you.
You glanced back at him. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
You nodded, turning back to the water. “Me too,” you sighed, wishing the void beneath you were a giant pile of comfortable pillows. “But not anymore.”
“I—“ he managed to choke up, looking at you. “Me, too.”
The words didn’t feel separate. They felt… tethered. Like a promise neither of you meant to make.
The wind rushed up from the dark below, cold enough to sting. Your fingers curled tighter around the railing as you turned your head.
He was already right there.
You realised a terrifying truth: If you jumped, he would.
And worse, if he did, you wouldn’t hesitate to follow.
You took a deep breath and leaned in anyway.
Dex did the same, like he understood exactly what this meant. Like he knew what you were giving him.
Your breaths mixed, you lips barely a breath apart—
—and a violent blast of car horns tore through it.
You jumped back like the world had yanked you apart.
Reality crashed in as you turned away, swallowing hard, grip tightening on the railing like it was the only thing holding you in place now.
Dex sighed, knowing that it was not the time, it was not the place. “Right…”
You tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear. “Yeah.”
—
Most nights, though, you’d take him to sit on a bench by the river, tucked away just enough that no one bothered you.
It had a plaque on it, one that you bought. One that said— in memory of beloved friends: Layla Gras and Darren Walsh.
You blew half your savings account paying for the goddamn bench.
So after most nights of fighting Task Force, you’d make your way there and sit with your legs stretched out. Dex would follow, and you’d lean into him without thinking.
You’d talk about nothing and everything. You’d talk about small things like the weather, but you’d also talk about deep shit. Real shit. Your days with SHIELD, and whatever he would offer from his past. You’d talk like this was a confessional booth, like you’ve sworn under oath in court— that’s how freely you divulge information about yourselves to each other. That’s how safe you felt around him. Ironic, considering his… professional reputation.
Today, you were sat there after ambushing more Task Force agents than you were expecting. You had gotten bruised, so you were pressing your fingers against your side with a small wince. “I’m getting sloppy.”
“You still won,” he said immediately, “shoulda seen those guys.”
You scoffed. “That’s a very you way of measuring success.”
“It’s the only way that matters.”
“Mm,” you hummed, unconvinced, but you didn’t argue. Your hand drifted down absently, brushing against your belt.
You froze for a second before pulling it free.
It was the knife you took from him on the first night you met.
You turned it in your hand. It was still in perfect condition, and of course it was. You’d taken care of it, maybe more than you needed to.
Your thumb traced the handle.
“Do you want it back?” you asked, holding it out slightly toward him.
Dex didn’t even look at it. “Keep it,” he said.
You blinked once, then let out a chuckle, lowering the knife back into your lap.
“Wow,” you said lightly. “How very sentimental.”
“It’s practical.”
“Is it?” you tilted your head. “Because I’m pretty sure you just gave me your weapon as a keepsake.”
“It’s not a keepsake,” he replied, but there was a slight delay. “You should use it.”
You laughed under your breath, shaking your head. “God, you’re unbelievable.”
You flipped the knife once in your hand before catching it again it was almost as if you were imitating him. “You know,” you added, voice quieting, “most guys give flowers.”
“I don’t think you’d like flowers.”
You turned to him, an eyebrow raised. “Excuse you. I love flowers.”
He finally looked at you properly, eyes scanning your face.
“No,” he said after a second. “You’d forget to change the water.”
Your mouth dropped open slightly. “That is—” you pointed at him with the knife, offended but amused, “—so disrespectful of you to assume.”
“You forgot to eat yesterday.”
“That is different.”
“It’s not.”
“It is,” you insisted, though you were already smiling. “One is basic survival. The other is… decorative responsibility.”
“That’s worse.”
You scoffed, staying silent for a long time.
This peace… was nice.
You looked out at the water, closing your eyes for a good five seconds before you opened them again. Then, you added, “I’d keep them alive if they mattered.”
Dex didn’t respond right away.
Your eyes dropped back to the knife, fingers tightening around it. “This matters,” you admitted shyly.
You didn’t look at him when you said it.
Instead, you carefully slid the knife back into your belt, adjusting it into place like it had always belonged there.
When your hand pulled away, you placed it on the bench.
Your fingers stayed there for a second… before you hooked your pointer finger around his.
You did it so casually, like it didn't mean anything. But it meant everything.
You leaned back slightly against the bench, shoulder bumping his just enough to close the space between you.
He leaned into your touch.
You smiled to yourself, eyes drifting out over the water as you let your thumb brush absently against his pinky.
Dex’s vision shifted to you, then to the small plaque fixed into the bench beneath you. He leaned forward slightly, just enough to read it properly.
He wasn’t stupid. He knew there must be a reason you brought him here like… what? Seven or eight times now?
He just never thought to ask because he didn’t know when the right time to ask would be. But it might as well be now.
His fingers adjusted, holding on slightly firmer. “Tell me about Layla and Darren.”
—
An hour later, the city had rolled further into early morning than night.
You stood from the bench after you laid your heart bare, rolling your shoulders once like you were checking in with your body before moving again. You were sick of being a walking sob story, however good it felt just to talk. You needed to move.
Dex stood a second after you did. “I’ll walk you home,” he said.
It came out a little stiff. Not forced, but unfamiliar.
You glanced at him, a smile pulling at your lips. “Oh?” you teased lightly. “Is that what we’re doing now?”
He frowned slightly. “What?”
“You know,” you shrugged, stepping past him, hands sliding into your pockets as you started down the sidewalk, “chivalry. Social norms. Walking a girl home.”
“I’m making sure you get back safely.”
You glanced over your shoulder at him. “Dex, I jump off rooftops for fun.”
“And you could still get hurt.” he replied evenly, falling into step beside you.
You didn’t argue.
The walk wasn’t long, but it stretched in that comfortable silence you’d both gotten used to. You walked shoulder to shoulder, naturally in sync.
By the time you reached your building, you slowed to a stop just outside the entrance. You turned to face him, head tilting slightly. “You wanna come upstairs?”
Dex didn’t hesitate. “Sure.”
“Wow,” you said, pushing the door open. “No internal conflict? No hesitation? I’m almost offended.”
“I trust you,” he said simply, following you inside.
Upstairs, your place was dark when you stepped in. You flicked the light on, yellow lights warming the otherwise dim apartment.
Dex’s eyes moved immediately, taking everything in.
It wasn’t what he expected.
It was… neat and intentional. Not sterile like his, but not cluttered either. There were actual decorations, like a plant by the window and books stacked alphabetically on your desk.
“Don’t look so surprised,” you said, kicking your shoes off and placing your keys onto the counter.
“I’m not,” he replied.
“You are,” you shot back, glancing at him. “You thought I lived in a cave or something.”
“I thought it would be less… personal.”
You hummed, walking further in. “Yeah, well. I tried the whole ‘normal life’ thing, remember?”
His eyes lingered a second longer, until it shifted to the second door, which was left slightly ajar.
You noticed.
“Ah,” you said, already moving toward it. “That one’s less aesthetically pleasing.”
You pushed the door open fully.
The spare bedroom, the shape of a square, was stripped down to nothing but function. All there was in there was a foam mat covering most of the floor, worn in places. A duffel bag was placed in the corner. There were a few taped-up sections of the wall where impact marks had clearly been… frequent.
You stepped inside first, gesturing lazily. “This,” you said, “is where I train.”
He walked further in, like he was mapping it out in real time. “You spend a lot of time in here,” he said.
You leaned against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed. “Keeps me sharp.”
He nodded once, like that confirmed something he already suspected. Then he turned to you. “Train me.”
“Are you serious?” you asked, pushing off the frame.
“Yeah.” He didn’t waver. “I know for a hand-to-hand combat specialist, you’re not particularly strong.”
“Ouch,” you said immediately, a hand pressing dramatically to your chest.
“What I mean is,” Dex continued, stepping closer. “I’ve seen you fight. You go against people twice your size. You’re not relying on brute strength, but you’re agile.”
You tilted your head slightly.
“I want to know how you do it,” he finished. “Teach me.”
Huh. You weren’t expecting this.
“Careful what you wish for,” you murmured, reaching up to shrug off your jacket. It slid from your shoulders, landing on the floor as you stepped onto the mat, rolling your wrists once like you were waking your body up again.
“C’mon, Dex,” you said, a hint of a challenge threading through your voice. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
—
Dex learned fast. That was the first thing you noticed.
The second was that he was not really trying to hurt you.
And that pissed you off.
His momentum slowed just slightly before impact. Then, he held back a counter that could’ve floored you but didn’t follow through. His grip was way too controlled.
You circled him lightly on the mat, breath steady despite the growing ache in your ribs.
“Again,” you said.
He moved.
You slipped under his strike, pivoted, redirected your palm and caught his wrist, your weight shifting just enough for him to hit the mat hard.
You stepped back, barely winded.
Dex stared up at the ceiling for a second before sitting up.
You could see it in his posture: restraint.
You narrowed your eyes.
“Godammit, Dex,” you tsked, pacing a circle around him. “You’re really committing to the whole ‘gentleman’ thing tonight, huh?”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” you interrupted, stopping in front of him. “You’re pulling your punches.”
“I’m adjusting,” he corrected, standing again.
“For what?” you challenged, tilting your head. “My feelings?”
His teeth tightened, his chin pointing to your bruised side. “For your condition.”
You scoffed, stepping closer. “My condition can handle you.”
A familiar flicker shot through his eyes.
“Or is it not that?” you added, voice lowering. “You worried you might actually hurt me, or…” You stepped in, close enough that you could feel his breath on your nose “…that you might not want to?”
Dex’s gaze locked onto yours, a darker want threading through it now.
“I’m not holding back,” he insisted.
“Liar.”
You moved before he could respond. This time, he didn’t hesitate.
He came at you faster, harder, and for a second, it almost looked like he meant it.
Good, you thought. The last thing you wanted was to be infantilised by the only man you might still have respect for.
You ducked, redirected, used his momentum, your body turning with his.
That was when he realised that calling you agile was the understatement of the century.
You weren’t overpowering him. You were using him. Every ounce of force he gave you became yours.
You twisted, hooked his leg, and sent him crashing down again.
This time, you followed him down.
Your knee pinned his arm before he could recover, your other leg sliding over his hips as you stabilized your position.
And suddenly, you were straddling his crotch.
Dex didn’t even try to move.
His chest rose under yours. His hands hovered blankly for a split second like he didn’t know where to put them… before settling against the mat.
Your hands pressed lightly against his shoulders, holding him there. You could feel the tension coiled on his muscles, beneath your palms.
And oh…
Oh.
You felt it.
Your lips parted slightly.
His pants were definitely more tight than they had been before, evident by how much it was actually pressing into your core.
“Wow…” you sighed, amused.
You shifted your hips, grinding into him ever so slightly, just enough to make the point undeniable.
His breath hitched, and his face, from his nose to his ears were getting red. You leaned down just slightly, close enough that your chest hovered over his.
“Fuck, Dex,” you whispered, teasing through it. “Does this get you off?”
His jaw clenched, and his eyes darted frantically.
He was embarrassed. How adorable.
When his hands finally moved, he grabbed your waist. It was firm, but not rough.
“Get off,” he said, but there was no real heat behind it.
You didn’t so much as flinch.
Instead, you smiled. “Make me.”
After a while, he moved.
Finally.
Dex didn’t shove you off gently this time. He fought, and you were pleased, even if lacking a hint of resistance. He did pivot, a torque of his shoulder, his grip locking at your wrist as he forced space between you.
You let him for half a second. Just long enough for him to think he’d reset the balance.
Then you twisted with him.
Your weight dropped, your hips shifting as you used his own pull to roll back in, forcing him to adjust, forcing him to react. The mat hit your knee, breath loud in both your ears now.
“Come on,” you taunted. “That all you got?”
That got something out of him.
The next movement was cleaner. He caught you off-guard, turned you, and in one controlled motion drove you into the wall.
His hand snaked around your upper chest, up to the throat line. He had caught you in a headlock, precise and controlled. His body pressed in, flush behind yours, close enough that you could feel the heat of him through the space he didn’t give you.
There was no room to turn properly. No easy escape angle. There was just his forearm locked under your, his other hand braced against the wall beside your head, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.
You let out a quiet laugh, breath slightly uneven.
“Took you long enough,” you said.
Dex didn’t loosen his grip. He leaned in and whispered closely, lips touching the shell of your ear. “Is this what you wanted, pretty girl?”
You would be lying if you said you didn’t like it.
But you also liked winning.
So, without warning, you sank your teeth into his bicep, hard enough to draw blood, to taste the tang of iron on your delicate tongue.
Dex, and you swore you weren't expecting this, moaned. It was throaty and low and utterly angelic to your ears.
It wasn’t long until he released you, more because he was surprised by his own bodily reaction than pain.
You stumbled forward out of the hold, spinning on your heel to face him again, licking your lips like nothing had happened.
Oh. That was interesting.
You looked at his arm again, watching the thin bead of blood you drew still sliding slowly down his skin.
“You okay?” you asked. It came off as gentler than you meant it to be, but there was still a hint of mischief between your eyes.
Dex didn’t answer immediately.
He was staring at you like his internal system had just stopped compiling. Like the world had introduced a variable he hadn’t accounted for and now everything else was lagging behind trying to catch up. It was like his brain had stalled somewhere between what just happened and why did I like that so much.
You lifted his arm slightly. “C’mere,” you pawed at his wrist, bringing the scar closer to your lips.
The bite was tiny, and there was only a little chance that it would leave a mark long-term. You would feel sorry if only he wasn’t so turned on.
And then you did something so absurdly gentle in contrast to everything you were. You leaned in… and kitten-licked the blood from his skin.
“F-fuck,” he said in a gasp, looking down your tongue to your eyes.
Oh, your eyes were locked on to his. He could barely keep it together.
The way you did it was teasing. Infuriatingly intimate in a way that didn’t match the violence still lingering in your skin. It’s as if you enjoyed drinking in his blood.
As you lapped up the scar at the source, he went very still.
Then his breath caught, his hardware short-circuiting.
A low, husky sound slipped out again before he could stop it.
Not pain, or anger. But pleasure.
He exhaled through his nose, like he was trying to regain command of himself and failing in real time.
“W-what the hell are you doing?” he managed.
You wiped your thumb slowly over his wrist like nothing about this was unusual. Like you weren’t currently reprogramming his entire sense of restraint.
“M’ showing you how sorry I am,” you said mildly. “I didn't mean to hurt you.”
He couldn’t look away and how beautiful you looked, how innocently you were acting through all this. You were a freak, he decided. If that was what it took, he would go band for band.
“That’s not what this looks like.”
You hummed, almost amused. “No?”
Dex didn’t answer.
He couldn’t, because he was still watching your mouth like it had become the only relevant object in the room.
Then you tilted your head slightly.
“Tell me to stop,” you said, dead serious. “And I’ll stop.”
Dex didn’t move for a second.
Not because he didn’t want to, but rather because he was trying very, very hard not to.
His eyes stayed on your mouth, on the faint trace of blood still there, and finally gave up pretending that you were anything short of an infuriatingly all-consuming obsession.
When his restrained snapped, it didn’t snap clean.
It frayed. Then tore.
His hand came up fast and grabbed your chin, firm enough to stop your whatever teasing remark you were going to say mid-breath. It was fucking rough, and you could feel it in your cheeks.
He didn’t hear you complaining, though.
“Dex—”
That was all you got out before he kissed you, hard. This time, nothing could possibly interrupt you.
There was no easing in. It was clear that this was the result of pent up emotions he’d been holding back for months finally finding somewhere to go.
His other hand hit the wall beside your head as he pressed you back into it, trapping you. But it was not like you wanted to be anywhere else.
You met him halfway.
Your hands found the collar of his shirt immediately, fingers curling in like you were pulling him closer just to make a point out of it.
His breath broke against your mouth for half a second, like even he couldn’t keep pace with how quickly this had escalated.
And then he kissed you again, like he was testing if you were real or just another thing his mind had invented under pressure.
You reminded him that you were tangible every time.
Running your tongue through his, gasping into his mouth.
He had been dreaming about this for months. He had fantasised up multiple scenarios in his head, how it would lead to this and how he would do it. Not once did he think he would finally get a taste of your lips and have it taste like himself.
His grip shifted, one hand still braced against the wall, the other sliding to your waist, pulling you in like he was done pretending there was supposed to be space between you at all.
When he finally pulled back, it was only enough to breathe.
His forehead hovered close to yours, his voice rough around the edges in a way you’d never heard from him before. “Don’t you fucking dare stop.”
You looked up at him through half-lidded eyes and smiled through your lashes. A faint trace of red still lingered at the edge of your teeth as you bit his lower lip. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“F-fuck, baby,” he cursed through gritted teeth, lips finding you jawline, you neck, nipping and biting until he settled at your collarbone, where you made the most noise.
His fingers caught the edge of your top, hesitating for half a second, until you helped him undress yourself and him all the same. Clothes were just simply in the way, in his line of fire.
His hands were everywhere he could justify them being, at your waist, your back, your face, running down your breast all the way down between your legs. He was learning you in real time and refusing to stop long enough to overthink it.
And you weren’t any better.
Your hand trained the lines of his body, from his neck to his torso, but ended up trailing down his back.
It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him shirtless, or the first time you saw the scar. It was the first time you felt it, though, all rough edges and raised skin.
The first time you noticed it, you knew it was too precise to be anything but surgical, too severe to be anything but catastrophic. He had told you about it on his own free will; told you how his T8 and T9 vertebrae were shattered by Wilson Fisk, and how what put him back together wasn’t exactly medicine so much as an experiment.
He said it like it didn’t matter.
You knew better. Bodies don’t forget that kind of thing, even when they’re forced to heal. And right now, baring his soul to you, he let you trace it with the pad of your fingers ever so gently.
Dex broke from your mouth just long enough to breathe, but even that didn’t create distance.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
You blinked up at him. “Like what?”
His grip tightened slightly at your waist. “Like you planned this.”
You smiled.
“Did you?” He demanded. He didn’t wanna stop it, he just needed to know.
“C’mon,” you laughed, tipping your head back. “A girl invited you up to her place. You thought we were gonna bake cookies or somethin’?”
That got a reaction out of him, almost like a laugh, but it died halfway into another kiss before it could become anything stable.
This was going to be fun.
—
Dex woke up in your bed the next morning.
He was lying on his stomach across, one arm tucked under a pillow, the other loosely curled like he’d fallen asleep mid-thought and never bothered finishing it.
He noticed the soreness of his back in soft waves. There were scratches there, shallow and scattered. Dex exhaled slowly through his nose.
Right.
That had happened.
Then he felt you.
You were sitting next to him, cross-legged on the bed, close enough that your knee brushed his side when you shifted, casual enough that it didn’t feel like distance even existed as an option.
Dex turned his head and stopped when he realised you didn’t have any clothes on either. And everything he did to you last night was on full display. The sunlight streaming through the windows even shone on you like you were a piece of art in a museum.
Beautiful, he thought.
Gentle evidence of love bites bloomed across your skin, marks he remembered leaving. It was… very intimate in hindsight.
You were looking down at him already, like you’d been watching him wake up for a while.
“Morning, sunshine,” you greeted.
Dex made an unassuming sound and pushed himself up on his forearms.
He looked at you for half a second before reaching for you.
He kissed you. As if it was the most natural thing in the world to wake up and find you beside him and decide, without question, that this was what mornings were now.
You kissed him back, your hand sliding into his hair with an ease that felt like trust.
When he pulled back, it was only a little.
“Morning,” he said, raspy.
“Ah.” You smiled faintly. “He speaks.”
Dex let out a breath again, more awake now, more aware of every point of contact between you and him.
He shifted fully upright this time, sitting back against the bed.
You just reached down to your bedside table drawer and showed him a small tub of aloe vera. You traced the scars on his back your nails left last night as if they were maps of constellations.
You had nothing to be sorry about. He asked for it when he was chasing his high in you, feral and affectionate all the same as you were gasping for air and saying his name like a prayer.
He had said he wanted his spinal scar to have company. He wanted the marks to feel good for a change.
Eventually, though, his eyes drifted down to his arm.
Last night, it started with one bite mark. This morning, he counted five. Three on his bicep, two on his forearm.
Again, he was the one who wanted it.
You had been trapped between the mattress and his body, putting you in a similar headlock from behind as he pulled the most lewd noises out of your pretty little mouth. “Gonna bite your way out now, pretty girl?” He whispered then, while you drew another bead of blood. “Huh? You know you like it. You know I— hmph fuck! Take it. Take it, take it…”
And the rest were mostly incoherent mumbles and muffled sinful mewls from both of you.
If your neighbours didn’t hate you before for all the thudding, they would now for all the fucking.
Still, the small tub of aloe was a curious thing.
He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Don’t tell me you feel bad now.”
You shrugged. “I just want a clean slate for next time.”
Dex’s heart skipped half a beat.
“Next time?” he repeated, like he was wondering whether the phrase was hallucinated.
You leaned forward slightly, tugging him by the shoulder so he turned his back toward you.
“Yeah,” you said simply. “Turn.”
Dex didn’t argue as you scooted closer behind him, dipping your fingers in the herbal ointment. His hands rested loosely on his thighs the whole time, not resisting as the coolness hit his skin. You laid it on the scratch marks first, then on his surgical scar. Not to erase it. Just to make it hurt a little less. To acknowledge that it was part of him, even if it didn’t define him.
When you were done, you gently guided him to face you again. “I knew you were kinky.”
Dex couldn’t help but laugh.
“But I have a feeling,” you set the tub down, “that I was just barely scratching the surface.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Dex said honestly. “I’ve never done that before.”
You chuckled, biting your lower lip. “You are adorable, Poindexter.”
You let your hand come up, tracing along his jaw before settling against his cheek. Your thumb traced the scar there.
He swallowed, but not out of discomfort.
Slowly, you leaned in.
The first kiss you pressed to the scar was featherlight, but you didn’t stop there.
Then you pressed another kiss, just beside it this time. It was warm, like he was worth being careful with.
His hand twitched at his side. He didn’t move it. But somewhere in the back of his mind, there was a quiet, insistent thought that convinced him, I don’t deserve this.
But he wanted it anyway.
Your lips brushed his cheek again, closer to the corner of his mouth this time, and his eyes shut briefly, like taking affection in was easier if he didn’t have to see it happening.
When you finally pulled back, it wasn’t far.
“I think it suits you,” you murmured.
He didn’t trust himself to answer that.
Your attention drifted down, fingers slipping from his face to his arm. You picked up his wrist gently, turning it just enough to see the marks you’d left behind.
This time, when you dipped your fingers into the aloe, your touch was careful. He watched you smooth it over the faint crescents of your bite.
Then, his eyes shifted to you, your bare skin, and the marks he’d left behind.
His brow furrowed slightly before he could stop it. “You’re okay, right?”
He asked it without thinking. It caught him off-guard. He wasn’t even aware he was capable of this kind of sympathy.
You glanced up, meeting his eyes.
“More than okay,” you told him. “I’d tell you if I wasn’t.”
He searched your face for a second, like he was trying to confirm it.
He lifted his hand.
His fingers brushed your skin, starting at your collarbone, tracing one of the marks he’d left. His touch was lighter than it had ever been, like he was afraid of pressing too hard, of leaving something worse behind.
You didn’t flinch, so he kept going.
Down to your shoulder, pausing at the bullet wound he’d stitched himself. His thumb hovered there for a second before grazing over it.
He thought about that night, about how much blood you lost and how utterly lifeless you looked in his arms. He thought he was going to lose you, and he was terrified.
You didn’t see this, of course. You had the privilege of being out cold.
You didn’t see him break down, panicking for almost twelve hours straight, feeling like he wanted to claw his eyes out because he thought he was going to lose you. You didn’t see how nauseous he got when your heart beat skipped, or how shaky his hand had been when he stitched you up. You didn’t see him broken, tears streaming down as he folded his own body onto the kitchen floor, when he didn’t know if you would ever wake up again.
So, if you wanted to, he would let you pretend this was just fun. You could pretend there were no strings attached. That last night, you two were just fucking like animals without the certainty of labels.
But it will never be just sex to him.
So when moved his hands on to the bruises on your body, to the cuts that the task force left for you, the only thing he could feel was blood-curdling rage.
But when he glanced at your face, he was down to earth again. Just like that.
His hand settled at your waist after that, his thumb rubbing soft circles on your hip.
Your fingers found his again, idly tracing the lines of his hand.
“Don’t die on me.” He whispered, as if he was almost scared to say it, as if reliving the memory again and again, with no end in sight. It might be an abrupt thing to say in the moment. It might feel out of place. But right now, after being so close to you, he just needed to know. “Please.”
You didn’t answer right away. When you did, it was barely more than a whisper. “I won’t.”
Your thumb brushed lightly over his knuckles.
“You don’t either,” you insisted, looking into his eyes. Then you added, “I mean it.”
His fingers shifted under yours, turning just enough to lace with your hand properly this time.
It was almost impossible to reconcile this version of him— the lovesick man in front of you who would melt like putty in your arms —with the one stamped wanted, armed and dangerous. And yet… you wouldn’t have it any other way.
You leaned forward slightly, resting your forehead against his. As your breaths fell into sync, he wasn’t even sure where you ended and he began.
After all, who knew the enemy of his enemy would turn out to be the only person who truly understood him?
