Work Text:
"Hey Bill."
Billy's breath hitched in his sore chest when Frank finally picked up the phone, static buzzing followed by the ever so sweet sound of his pillow voice, husky and low, that kind of grounded gravel baritone Bill found so damn compelling. It took him a split second to process the other man’s words, mainly because his cock twitched in time with his hiccupy breath, but he forced himself out of the Frankie-induced haze by balling his working hand in a fist and digging his nails into the clammy flesh of his palm. Focus, Russo.
"Hey Frank," he managed, and he almost chuckled to himself because, come the fuck on, his voice was wobbly, but that wasn’t entirely Frank’s fault to begin with. More or less.
They were currently on leave, both safe and sound in the City instead of sweating their pricks off somewhere in Iraq, full gear sitting heavy on their shoulders while they dragged their sorry asses through their shifts with barely enough hours of sleep keeping them upright and alert. They had made it back to New York when the city was starting to show it's beautiful fall palette, yellows and reds and browns plastered to a leaden-and-white sky that threatened rain pretty much everyday. And Billy, being the average bastard he was - though he had fought all his life to rise above that - had started missing Frank as soon as the man had driven him home, squeezed him in a tight embrace and given his scarf a sharp tug before disappearing into the trafficky lane, because "goddammit, Billy, are you even familiar with the concept of a scarf?" .
That insufferable beast.
Now Billy's lips curled up in a quiet smile. Absentmindedly, he considered that maybe - maybe! - if someone had tucked him in his scarf when he had been young enough to thrive on such small gestures, now he wouldn't find himself sitting cross legged on the floor of his shitty home, starving for attention and sporting a nasty burn on his left hand, his bad shoulder gone numb and his heart dancing the fucking Lambada under his sore breastbone. But that was only speculation, and Billy had none of that shit at the moment. Actually, he was sure he needed to lay down a bit, but he couldn't bring himself to engage in the effort of getting on his feet and - God forbid!- actually walking to the couch and crash there for the next couple of hours.
From the other side of the phone, he heard Frank jerking upward, his crisp bedsheets rustling, and rubbing his hand roughly over his sleepy face. Oh, he could fucking picture him. Shirtless, relaxed, content. Still warm from the night, his face crisscrossed with the delicious crumples left by a real pillow. Again, Billy's cock twitched in his Armani jeans – the perks of having participated in two Middle East tours. Now he could afford to waste fucking Armani clothes to laze around his house.
"Something wrong, Bill?"
Concern. Billy felt it oozing from the speaker, bleeding into his ear and eliciting an immediate serotonin response that kicked his already frenzied heartbeat into overdrive. He flashed a look towards the angry red mark on his hand. With some luck, the scarring would turn out minimal and in case he ran out of luck...well. Women and men alike were easily charmed by a war veteran with a marred hand. As long as his face remained beautiful and his looks impeccable, he was sure he would have had no problems in finding some willing company for the night.
"Ah...uh...not exactly wrong but – let's say a situation."
He feigned that goofy, easy-going and almost boyish tone Frank seemed to be so fond of. It struck true; he heard more rustling - Frank had undoubtedly tossed his legs out of the bed - and some fumbling. Perhaps Frank was already jumping into his jeans? Could be totally him. Loyal, through and through. Sometimes even infuriatingly so.
"Define situation."
Frank was talking through gritted teeth. Bill imagined he was, somehow, managing to get dressed with something shoved in his mouth and only one hand fit for the task of putting on a mildly clean t-shirt, a pair of stained jeans - being a father meant that Frank's jeans were always stained while on leave, and not with blood, which made for a nice change indeed - and socks. Billy almost laughed when he thought that a pair of balled socks could definitely be the thing Frank was holding in his clamped teeth.
He huffed out a chuckle.
"Yessir. Well, I may have accidentally made a mess while trying to fix a couple of things in my kitchen. A...friendly hand would be much appreciated."
Frank grunted. Something thudded against the carpeted floor. God, Frank did really have a chaotic energy, didn't he? Billy tried to roll his stiff shoulder, but he was forced to bite back a wail of pure, unadulterated pain lest he wanted Frank to meet his ultimate demise while hitting the road at full speed, believing him to be seizing in a pool of his own blood on the floor of his pint-sized kitchen.
“You know you’re not helping, right, Bill?”
“Does ‘tis but a scratch ease your worry, Frank?”
“Like shit, asshole.”
Billy sighed. His chest hurt and his dizzy head too. He wasn’t sure, but a few minutes had gone missing since his so-called accident and the moment he had dialed Frank’s number, which could probably mean that he had blacked out and possibly bashed his head into the floor while at it. Carefully, he brought his hand to his forehead - trying not to upset his strained shoulder too much - and he started prodding for a bump. He found it near his temple, slightly swollen and tender to the touch, and he hissed when he dipped his fingertips to test if the bone underneath was still intact – one could never be sure.
“Okay, okay, no need to call me names, asshole. I’ve touched a live wire, you happy now?”
Frank’s throat bobbed and clicked.
“You did what.”
Well, now Billy could be sure Frank would have rushed to him, Maria and the kiddies be damned. Not that he hated them, of course. He found the whole lot entertaining, sometimes downright endearing, but there was no denying that they stole precious fucking time that Frank could use more costructively, let’s say to bury himself balls-deep into Billy instead. Or hold his fucking hand while he complained some boo-boo. Really, Billy wasn’t picky. He had been absolutely delirious with happiness while shooting for his very life on a godforsaken hill in Iraq just because Frank was at his side all along. He had wolfed down military rations eagerly just because Frank showed appreciation for that tasteless crap. Oh, the things he had done for that man, patiently waiting for him to understand. And he had understood, eventually. On a too hot night, near an oil-extraction plant, intoxicated by the burning fumes, they had kissed. The kiss had quickly turned into a good, under the radar fuck, and voilà : your basic warzone comfort is served. Billy had started doubting his ability to lure men into his bed after so many failed attempts, but it had turned out that Frank was only a mildly repressed Catholic boy who loathed the concept of cheating on his pretty, pretty wife waiting for him at home.It hadn’t stopped him from looking for Billy’s intimate company, though. Which was a win-win and shit, but while on leave one had to improvise. And Billy had definitely improvised, showing once again the full extent of his hard-learned adaptability.
“It wasn't my fault,” he protested, leaning against the wall. Liar. “You know I’m not a fan of diy. ”
“You should have called me, you dick,” Frank grumbled, keys jangling against the speaker. Billy couldn’t help but flash a smug smile to the empty kitchen counter, pleased with himself. He called, Frank ran. To Bill, that was the ultimate definition of fucking committment.
“I am calling you now. I’m not dying, Frank. Just to clarify.”
“Fuck you, Russo. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
***
"Bill?"
Billy loved the soft, almost undetectable tremble in Frank's voice when it was thick with worry, his bass notes shaky and unsteady. He had seen Frank worried before and, the fucking irony, it had always come down just to the two of them. If he was worried, let's say, for Maria and the kids, his voice retained a different quality, less unsteady and more canonically manly, as if by worrying for his family Frank could affirm his alpha man bullshit personality and fulfill his natural inclination towards playing hero. Damn, Frank would have made such a fine Batman. Billy snorted to himself at the intrusive thought and brushed it aside.
"In here," he called from the kitchen, his back still resting against the wall. His disarrayed hair had fallen on his forehead; for good measure, he shook his head, tousling it even more.
Remember, kids. Making an impression is more important than anything else.
Frank literally plummeted into his field of vision, all mismatched clothes and brand puppy eyes, and Billy put on a nice show to try and wave his hand - failing spectacularly - towards him.
"Ouch," was his peculiar greeting. Frank, already sick with worry, started rambling one mile a minute.
"Jesus Christ, Bill! What the fuck were you thinking? Come on, I'll help you to the couch. Shit, gotta take you to the ER, eh? Yes, definitely. Here, lean on me," he said, crouching down so that Bill could throw his arm over his shoulders and leave the heavy lifting to him. Admittedly, Bill had seen better days. Swaying on his feet made him even more dizzy; white dots danced in his peripheral, and his vision got kinda blurry more than once while slowly trudging to the couch hanging against Frank's shoulder.
"You should see the other guy," he joked, flashing Frank a smile that had all the intentions to be teasing but ended up looking pretty weak and sickly. Frank set him nice and comfortable on the almost unused pillows, brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead, and cast a glance past the kitchen door.
"Yeah, saw him," he grunted, referring to the maimed power plug next to the fridge. "Nice butchering work, ever thought of going civilian again and starting a business as an electrician?"
Billy faked indignation.
"You're kicking the dead horse, Frankie. Have some respect!"
Frank huffed out a gruff laugh.
"No, seriously. Why didn't you just call a professional? You got the money. I tell you, playing with home electricity ain't safe."
"I know. But I made it through Officer School, okay? I thought I could fix a fucking outlet. Turns out, I'm still shitty at bricolage, but I'm great with a sniper rifle and a shitton of responsibilities. Duh, I guess."
Billy tried to stretch. His muscles protested vehemently. Not that he was thinking he had gone too far, but – well, mistakes were made. Etcetera etcetera. Frank didn't let his pained hiss skip under the radar and gave him a somewhat exasperated look in return.
"Jesus fuck," he muttered, reaching for Billy's pulse and dipping his fingertips into his carotid artery. Billy flushed, his already erratic heartbeat kicking into a frenzied gallop. Fuck, sex was good, but the intimacy of Frankie taking his pulse? That was on a totally different level. It made him feel exposed, and not exactly in a bad way. Cared for. Just like when Frankie peppered his face with kisses after a neat fuck, or something equally domestic and sentimental.
He put on a mask of carefree foolery and smiled, wincing slightly when he curled his toes and a jolt of searing pain ran up his calf, making his knee jerk involuntarily.
"Will I live, doctor?"
Frank gave him a raised eyebrow.
“I’m taking you to the ER. You’re quite fucked up inside, Bill.”
Billy didn’t refrain from cackling. God, Frank. Frankie could be a whole lot of things, but he had never learned the art of sugar-coating it, he was always blunt, way too honest, sometimes to the point of sounding harsh. Billy loved that about him, and loathed it all the same. As much as candor could be a shield, it was a deadly illness nonetheless, and Frank looked almost destined to die of fucking honesty.
“The ER? Seriously Frank? Come on, it was just-”
Frank cut him off abruptly, unmannerly, his face commanding enough to make Billy feel weak in the knees.
“It was a live wire. Your hand is burnt badly. I can’t leave you like this, brother, come on.”
Billy scoffed ungracefully.
“Then you could stay.”
“Nah, Bill. Nice try, though. I’ll see you to the ER.”
“And then?”
A shadow crossed Frank’s already gloomy features. In his weird and unique way, the man was handsome, all soulful eyes and uncouth face, his crooked nose broken one too many times to heal straight; it sat on his disharmonious face perfectly, by the way, and Billy couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that Frank managed to look so good even though he didn’t meet any common standard on masculine beauty that one could find in any macho magazine around the globe. Still. Billy thought he was handsome. Period. And now that he was conflicted, torn between the loyalty he owed to his wife and that kind of life-and-death dependability he shared with his lover slash brother in arms, he looked even more beautiful, as if it could be fucking possible. Some people, Billy believed, were made to look good through hardship, and Frank Castle was the ultimate proof of his theory. But he had enough of philosophy for the day, his head was giving him hell and the burn on his hand had started pulling and itching. Come on, Frank, will it be Maria or poor, injured Billy? Choose wisely, Frank.
“Fuck you, what kind of question is that? I’ll stay. I must make sure you’ll live, asshole.”
Billy sighed, relieved. It hadn’t taken a mastermind to craft a plan to force Frank to spend time with him even though they weren’t buried in a ditch in the desert, but he could be satisfied with the result.
“All right,” he said, trying to convey ill-concealed reluctance. “I can play damsel in distress for an afternoon if that pleases you.”
Frank pulled an utterly annoyed face and groaned.
“Shut the fuck up, Bill.”
***
“I thought they didn’t let anyone in.”
Billy wasn’t surprised surprised when Frank opened the curtain in his usual gruff way and sneaked in, coffee in hand and the face of someone who had just fought an army of angry ghosts with a stick and a needle. He was poking at the nice white bracelet a friendly senior nurse had slapped around his wrist, indicating that he had no known allergies and that his name was Billy Russo, and – bam. Frank was there, in all his I-worry-too-fucking-much glory, looking at him as if he was the most precious, most fragile thing in the world and he had to, he had to cherish and protect it.
God. The last of the romantics.
Billy’s already disrupted heart gave a forceful lurch at the thought. Being a foster kid and all that shit had made him quite a sucker for being wanted, needed or simply loved. Frank fulfilled him because he wanted him, he needed him and he loved him, no questions asked and no complications. Despite detesting being the one to cheat on his wife, Frank was there and, man, even a sad bastard like Billy could feel wanted like that.
“They don’t.”
He snorted. Frank’s coffee smelled good. He tried to reach for the styrofoam cup, but the asshole gave him a disapproving look and put as much space as he could between Billy and the caffeine. He considered pouting, but he had done his part into acting desperate for the day.
“Then I’ll better not ask questions, right Frankie?”
“You betcha,” Frank grunted, his fingertips discreetly finding Bill’s and squeezing gently. His voice softened suddenly, dropping by another octave. “How do you feel?”
Billy shrugged. The hospital gown was itchy and his shoulder hurt like hell, but thanks to whatever concoction was dripping down his IV his head had stopped spinning and, according to the same friendly nurse that had tagged him like a pretty dog at a fair, his blood pressure had improved significantly.
“Bored to hell,” he replied, an apologetic smile dancing over his lips. “But the doctor is going to check on me soon, he said that the electricity has passed through my heart and that I am lucky, shit like that. I could have gone into ventricular fibrillation and – well, kicked the bucket in my own kitchen. Blah blah blah, right?”
“For Chrissake, Bill.”
“What.”
Frank scratched nervously at the cropped patch of dark hair at the sides of his head. The man had no sense of style, but Billy loved his sideburns anyway. They gave a somewhat sharper quality to his cheekbones. He took another sip of coffee, then, his grip around Billy’s fingers tightening imperceptibly.
"That's not blah blah. You could have died, asshole. How the hell did you manage to touch a live wire anyway?"
"Mistakes were made?" The look on Frank's face soured. Billy sighed. "I was just trying to fix the power plug, Frank, don't look at me as if I've jumped into the line of fire for fun and giggles. I opened the plug, messed around for a while, then I gave up because...you know. I am utter shit at sorting such things out."
"And then what?"
Billy flashed him a raised brow. Really, Frank? Since Frankie seemed so determined to play good bro - or dad for what mattered, but the thought gave Billy the creeps - he figured he could go in with a gesture of goodwill and craft a nice story for him. As long as Frank stayed, he was comfortable with anything, really. Even playing a bearded version of damsel in distress was proving to be fun. Still, he had hoped for a different outcome when he had first decided that, to hell with common sense, he would have touched the damned wires because he wanted Frank to care, and what better way to have Frankie caring about him if not a nasty booboo? Clean, simple, smooth. And if he had done his math instead of acting on impulse things would have gone exactly as planned, with no ER and excessive foam pads sticking to his skin involved.
Yet.
“I was about to call someone competent when I…think? Yeah, I think I’ve accidentally touched a wire. I was still sitting on the floor, must have blacked out for a while, then – I called you.”
“You are a fucking menace, Russo, do you know that?” Frank erupted, after a long beat of thoughtful meditation. Billy chuckled at Frank’s stricken expression, his deep, dark eyes impossibly soft. When the doctor finally came back, they were still holding hands like a couple of awkward teenagers. Fucking doctor offered no sympathy, though; he kicked Frank out rather unceremoniously and flashed Bill a look that could only mean trouble.
Well, shit.
***
“I’ve called Maria. Told her I was sleeping over.”
Even though being highly trained to avoid it, Billy was drifting, his good arm dangling from the couch and the other folded over his eyes languidly, restless fingers plucking idly at the smooth fabric of his designer shirt.
“She fine with it?”
Billy detected the subtlest hint of guilt in Frank’s voice, but he was smart enough not to rub it in. The last thing he wanted was for Frank to storm out of his home, scorned, because if there was something Frank was really good at, that was holding grudges. He could swear to god, the man had ditched friendships for less.
“Yeah…yeah. She offered to bring in some casserole, but I told her we were fine, that I would have cooked and shit.”
Billy shifted on the couch, propping his back against the armrest with a smirk.
“And will you? Cook for me, I mean.”
“Shut up, I’ve already cooked for you. Don’t you remember?”
“That slop at boot camp? God, Frank, cook like that tonight and I’ll consider having a sudden heart attack as a merciful way to end it for good.”
Frank snorted, crossing the room in long, stompy steps and taking a seat on the overcrowded secondhand sofa, pulling Billy’s legs on his lap and rubbing circles into his muscular thighs.
“You comfortable with the wires?”
Bill frowned, then he remembered. Yeah, the fucking wires. Despite his vehement protests, the doctor had hooked Billy up to a holter monitor before discharging him, instructing him to come back after twenty-four hours to have the thing removed and the results examined. The situation per se was pretty annoying, but at least it had given Billy the perfect excuse to keep Frank for himself a little longer. He pulled a face and, carelessly, he undid most of the buttons of his shirt, glancing at the color-coded conductive strands crisscrossing his chest.
“I look like a cheap version of Robocop, don’t I?” He observed, curling his lips in that lopsided smile Frank admittedly adored. He watched his throat bob, his tongue sticking out between his slightly crooked teeth for the briefest second.
I know you want to kiss me, Frank. Come and get me.
“Nah. You look like an asshole who was ready to go with a bang.”
Billy flipped him halfheartedly.
“Come here.”
Right, they were both grown men. Military men. Soldiers trained to fight in the most brutal carnage of the XXI century. Usually, they didn’t do soft - cuddles were for hasty afterglows and unpleasantries like field injuries and shit that kept you in the medical ward for a couple of days - but Frank looked in the mood for soft. Billy wasn’t, not really, but he could deliver. He was so good at pretending, he had pretended all his fucking life to give a flying shit – now he really cared, if only for Frank and nobody else, so…what was another white lie in a life of white lies? Besides, he was injured. He could be entitled to soft, couldn't he?
Frank grumbled under his breath as he and Billy adjusted to find a suitable position on the couch, barely fitting for one single Billy Russo stretched out on the cushions, his legs long enough for his feet to push against the opposite armrest with ease.
“What now?” He asked, that mocking undertone sending shivers of pure pleasures down Billy’s spine. Well, if they were going where he supposed they were going, he would have had a whole lot of explanations to do when returning the infernal device to the doctor the following evening. Sorry, doc. Had some steamy hot sex, do not mind the palpitations here and there. He snorted to himself and kissed Frank sloppily, tasting coffee and discount mints on his tongue.
“Oh, nothing,” he said, a smug grin blooming on his lips as he witnessed how pliable Frank became after only one kiss, languid gaze hooded and his big, strong hands possessive as his fingertips dug into Billy’s hips.
“Next time,” Frank said in a breathless whisper, “I’ll leave you for dead, Russo.”
“Liar. You would never.”
Frank blinked. Their mouths brushed again, white hot and needy. The portable ECG alarm went off at some point, but Billy wisely decided to ignore it.
“Yeah, I would never,” Frank admitted in the end.
Billy gave him a wolfish smirk before capturing his mouth again, sucking hard at his lower lip and scratching his own against Frank’s stubble. The beeping alarm of his holter monitor provided a nice background noise. At least it wasn’t gunfire or shouted curses, for once…