Work Text:
She's washing some of her dirty dishes late at night when he uses the key she left him for the first time. It’s been three months.
She startles when she hears a noise at her door, only a few feet from where she stands at her sink. She freezes when she hears her door being unlocked followed by seeing it slowly open. She drops the plate that she has in her hands back into the dishwater when he steps through her doorway. She curses to herself that she didn’t move to get her gun that’s stashed in a draw behind her.
Her heart is barely settled by the time she realizes it’s just Frank. She almost laughs at herself for thinking of him of “just Frank”.
By the time he’s made it inside and shut the door behind him, she’s leaning against the counter, fixing him with a stare that she hopes conveys how highly she thinks of his entrances (scare tactics, really).
When she gets a good look at him though - “Shit.”
His jaw is swollen and his face is covered with what look like scratches.
Her voice is slightly high-pitched when she asks, “Were you shot?” He shakes his head. “Stabbed?”
“Not really.” His voice is rough and low. She frowns at him.
Before she asks, he tries to shrug his jacket off. She rushes to help him take it off before he hurts himself further. She winces along with him when she sees his back soaked in blood.
Her eyes are wide as she takes in the large slash down his back. “Did, did you fight a swordsman?”
“Sure,” he hedges.
He makes a gesture towards her living room. She hesitates, but helps him to the sofa anyway. She has her hand on his arm as she helps him lay on his stomach, feeling the tension in him from the pain.
Her hand hovers for a second before she smooths it through his hair, not missing how his eyes close at the contact. Quietly, “I’m gonna grab some stuff, okay?”
He doesn’t answer her, but he doesn’t move when she stands to quickly gather some first aid supplies, along with scissors to cut his shirt off and a bowl of water with a clean cloth.
By the time she settles on her knees in front of the couch and cuts his shirt to expose his back to her, she admits to herself she doesn’t know how to take care of this. She isn’t some nurse and she's never done much more then put band-aids on paper-cuts. She’s left everything else to professionals.
But he's here, he came to her and she guesses it's because there's no one else for him to turn to. And he clearly won’t go to the hospital.
So she takes a deep breath, starting a bit when she sees that he's turned his head to look at her.
Patting his arm, she tells him, “I'm gonna try and wash your back a bit, see how bad the damage is.”
He puts his forehead on top of his folded arms and she takes it as permission to continue.
She keeps her touch light, terrified of causing any or more pain. He’s silent and still under her hands and the bowl of water quickly turns darker as she goes.
There was a lot of blood, both dry and wet, but now clean, the cut looks mostly shallow. Which is good because there was no way in hell he would have gotten her to try stitches. She gathers some of the gauze she grabbed, placing medium-sized patches of it on the wound and crudely tapes them in place. It wasn’t her finest job, but it’ll work for now.
And then, before she can stop herself: “You’re staying the night, right?”
Remarkably, he manages to stiffen even more. And gruffly answers, “No,” his face still downward.
She snorts, “Then why’d you come here? Did you really think I’d help you patch up and let you walk right out of here again?”
He turns his face towards her again, “Let me?”
She keeps her eyes from widening and then scoffs at him. “You needed help getting your jacket and shirt off and honestly, I doubt you wouldn’t have trouble getting up right now.”
His eyes narrow at her. “I just need a couple of hours.”
She softens her stance. “You came here, Frank. You wanted help from someone you trust,” his glare sharpens, “Don’t look at me like that, why else would you be here?”
“I was nearby.” She makes a noise of disbelief. He huffs, “Would you rather I not be here?”
She pauses, wondering how she gave him that impression, before shaking her head, realizing he just wants to change the subject. She doesn’t answer him.
After a moment of silence, he gets his arms underneath him to lift his body up. Surprised by his sudden movement, she scrambles to try and get him to lay back down. At his resistance, she settles for helping him sit straight, walking around the sofa to make sure his makeshift bandages stay in place. She used more tape than what was most likely necessary, so everything stays in place.
As she comes back around, she notices how pale he looks. She puts her hand on his shoulder as she sits next to him, putting a little pressure into the hold to convey that she wants him to stay in place.
She asks, “Do you even have any other places you can go?”
He waves his hand at her. “Here and there.”
“What? What's that even mean?”
He sighs. “Don't worry about it.” She rolls her eyes.
“You're right, you bleeding all over my couch actually is more important.”
He raises his brow, “I’m not bleeding anymore.” She flashes a grin at him.
“Nope. And you’re welcome.” He thanks her with a small smile of his own.
She finds herself at a loss for words as he situates himself into a better position. The movement brings her attention to his chest, finding herself looking for more cuts, scrapes or bruises and finding only scars. Not too quickly, she lifts her hand from his shoulder, bringing it to her lap.
All too clearly she remembers his last visit to her place. For weeks after she willed herself to forget that moment he let himself go with her, but it didn’t work. He stares at her now and she feels like she’s being challenged. She can’t guess to what, but she refuses to back down from whatever it is.
“I’m gonna grab you a shirt, I have a couple over-sized ones that might fit you.” He doesn’t say anything and only watches as she goes to her bedroom. Out of sight, she digs in her closet as fast as she can to find the shirt she’s thinking of, part of her worried that he’s going to sneak out now that she’s left him alone.
But he’s still there, his head leaning back, eyes half-closed. She admires the view before tossing the shirt at him, turning to go into her kitchen to grab them both a beer.
She thinks better of it when looking in her fridge, grabbing bottles of water instead so she can feed him some pain pills. He accepts them when she hands them over, nodding his head at her before swallowing them down.
She stands close by him, thinking about what she’s about to ask him. How he might take it, how he might turn it down.
She straightens her back, reminding herself that he came to her.
“I want you to take my bed.” He doesn’t even look at her. He runs his hand over his face tiredly, letting his head hang down. She claims half a victory because he didn’t immediately reject the offer.
He doesn’t say anything though and she wonders if he’s waiting her out so she will take back the offer. She doesn’t.
She knows he hears her quick intake of breath when he suddenly stands up. Slowly, he starts putting the shirt she got him on. She helps him get it down over his back, ensuring that it doesn’t get caught on any of the gauze or tape.
He turns to look her in the eye before tilting his head. “Where’re you gonna sleep?” She spreads her hands towards the couch.
He shakes his head at her. “You got larger than a twin in there, yeah?”
A part of her doesn’t follow his line of thinking, feeling a bit of whiplash from the last time he was here. She nods to answer his question anyway.
“Alright.” He stands there, gesturing for her to move. She goes back to her first thought when he didn’t answer her before, thinking he’s waiting for her to change her mind.
So she heads to her bedroom, grabbing an extra pillow from her linen closet. She puts it on the left side of the bed, because the right side is hers and if he really expects her to share the bed with him, she’s not giving her side up.
She’s already in her night clothes, so she crawls into bed first. She curls onto her side, away from him, feeling his eyes burn into her back. He doesn’t immediately follow her into the bed and she worries her lip while waiting for him, part of her expecting him to dart out of her apartment.
But then she hears two thumps on the floor and feels the bed dip under his weight. The blankets she’s bundled under pull tight on her, so turns onto her back to see what he’s doing.
He’s lying on his stomach beside her, on top of the covers. She feels a laugh bubble up in her chest but holds it back. He buries his face in her pillow and she turns onto her side, facing him this time.
She takes an arm out from under the blankets, wanting to touch him, have some connection to him because like that night months ago, she knows he won’t be there come sun up.
She settles for laying her hand next to his, her pinkie in his palm.
He lets her.