Chapter Text

He was born Francis Moore, no middle name. His birth parents were short like that; short on names, short on attention, and short on love. He wondered sometimes if he should’ve changed his last name to the name of the people who raised him and taught him what it meant to be a man, but ultimately he couldn’t do it. He wanted… no, needed, to stay connected to that name. It was one of the few ties to his old family that he had left, and while he hated his parents and everything they’d done, he couldn’t let go of the last connection he had to his brother.

Where Francis was tall and broad, his little brother was short and slender. Francis’ skin was darker and rougher than his brother’s light complexion, and a pair of foster parents once described them as toast and peaches ‘n cream, before laughing in a cruel way. The brothers didn’t stay at that home very long.

His entire life, Francis struggled to flatten his dark curly hair to his head, but after football practice in high school, when his helmet came off, it was as messy and wild as it was after a night of restless sleep; a black crown floating around a frantic mind, dark eyes crystalline and wild. Francis appreciated his brother’s lighter, smoother locks and gentler features the most on nights like those. Small touches and gentle hugs, a hand rubbing against a back to soothe, and Francis could sleep again. In all the world, the two boys only had each other.

Francis took to football easily, with his broad shoulders, wide hands, and easy smile. No matter what home he and his brother ended up in, Francis would find a place on the team. He could always make friends this way. His deep need to belong made him an ideal fit for the high school sports culture. Francis tried so many times to get his brother involved in school activities, but he would always say, Frankie, stop trying so hard, and go back to whatever project he was working on, usually something engineering related.

Alex, he thought to himself, in the darkness of night when the Georgian stars twinkled, their song reminding him of a home and a brother he’d promised himself he’d never forget. The remnant of a family that he’d never let go of. It was on nights like those that he would roll over and hold his wife close. He would think of their children, and their happy, quiet life together, and usually he’d be able to fall back asleep after a long while.

It didn’t used to be simple, pushing his brother to the back of his mind and living his life, things became easier. Wounds of the heart didn’t heal so easily; sometimes they stitch themselves together with too much protein, scar tissue lumping and shining, an embarrassment and an eye sore and something to hide, a constant reminder of a mistake made, the imperfection and endurance of the body.

Francis excelled in medical school. He didn’t have a stomach for surgery, so he stuck to family practice. Do no harm, he swore. And yet, one of the most interesting facts he’d learned was that when the body doesn’t get what it needs, when vitamin C isn’t abundant enough, collagen is made poorly, and thus unstable. Capillaries burst, wounds remain open, and since the body constantly replaces the collagen in scar tissue, old scars can reopen.

He wanted his scars to stay closed, so he fed his wounds with any love he could find: love from his adopted parents, his wife and children, his church, and the patients at his medical practice. He would even go out of his way to help strangers. What is an older brother without a younger brother? A people-pleaser, and a man desperate for kindness from anyone who will give it.

Can I help you with your groceries, Sam?

Do you need help crossing the street, Mrs. Winshire?

Your cat ran up that tree, Susie? I’ll get it for you.

As a child, he’d been the peacekeeper between his parents and his brother, comforting and placating and doing everything he could to minimize the abuse. He would even take the blame for things Alex did. As much as he craved love from June and Geoff Moore, he needed to protect Alex especially, and so he bowed and caved and begged and apologized to protect him.

And when he didn’t have to do that anymore, when the state pulled them out of that home because their parents hit them and oh, yeah, they were also making and dealing meth, because of course they were, and they went into the system, Francis didn’t stop protecting him.

And when the courts were involved again when he was sixteen, Francis was relieved. He had done everything he possibly could for Alex, to protect him and save him and love him, and to be the best big brother possible, and he’d failed. He wanted to be punished, and he offered himself up as a sacrificial lamb. He could finally suffer the way he had always needed to, and Alex could finally have a good life. It was all worth it. Francis would do anything for his brother.

And then Alex died.

Chapter Text

Francis woke with a start, sweaty and tangled in the sheets. The power had turned off sometime in the night, and with it the dehumidifier. Moisture hung in the air and clung to him like a shroud.

He looked over to his wife who was still deep in slumber, probably dreaming of summertime sugar plums and fairies and whatever else that creative head of hers could think up.

Nights like these were the worst.

Alex had been there in his mind, smiling and happy and vibrant like he’d been when they were children. Waking up after seeing his little brother alive and thriving was the worst kind of hell.

Because there was no getting him back.

Because Alex was dead.

Chapter Text

After the court separated Francis and Alex when Francis was sixteen and Alex was fourteen, Francis wholly submitted to his punishment.

Any time his mind would wander too long to Alex, wondering how he was doing, if he was happy, hoping beyond hope that he found somewhere to belong and some way to overcome Francis’ failure, he would pull out his personal copy of the court papers and run his finger over and over again on the few lines that meant he could never see his brother again. They would eventually smudge and become illegible, but not yet.

...Alexander Moore is a deeply confused boy who was manipulated by his older brother. For his safety, he is not to be contacted by Francis, and he is not to contact Francis. If either of them are caught with each other, or attempting to make contact with each other, Francis Moore will be tried as an adult...

Which meant that, as long as they were alive, they could never see each other again.

Francis, long used to being a martyr, accepted it immediately. He’d protected Alex from their parents when they were young children, he’d protected Alex from other kids and teachers who tried to bully him, and he’d made sure that Alex always got what he needed, even if it meant Francis went without. The night Francis gave up Alex was the night he decided to kill any last shreds of selfishness in his soul. He became a man who couldn’t stand up for himself; a man who constantly punished himself and supplicated himself to everyone around him. He fell into Christianity easily, and it sated his need to be punished, and gave him a glimmer of hope that maybe he could be something more than he had been before.

Francis knew he’d never forgive himself for what he did to his brother, the person he loved more than life itself. He would do anything for Alex, and that included protecting Alex from himself.

Francis would do anything for Alex. He had no idea that Alex would do anything for him, too.

-----

It was the night of his medical school acceptance party when he was twenty two that he found out Alexander Moore had died.

His adoptive parents, Mr. and Mrs. González, along with his girlfriend of two years, Julie Encoms, had been planning for months. Francis had told them not to put too much work into it, that he probably wouldn’t even get accepted, that his grades weren’t good enough and he couldn’t afford it, anyway.

“Francis, you’re getting in and that’s final,” Mrs. González sternly told him.

“Let your family celebrate you,” Mr. González insisted with his perpetually twinkling smile.

“Frank, honey, we love you and believe in you even if you don’t believe in yourself. That’s what family’s for, right?” Julie said while soothing him with a hug.

Julie was a beautiful, petite woman with a stern chin and striking blue eyes. She seemed severe until she smiled, and then it was if the heavens themselves had opened up. Her long blonde hair swept down her back, Francis complimented her perfectly. Stubborn Julie and her Prince is what their college friends called them.

When Francis was with Julie, he was able to exist in her shadow, and that was how he liked it. So when his parents and his girlfriend told him that they were throwing him a medical school acceptance party, he let them graciously.

So here he was, twenty two years old with an incredible girlfriend, two loving parents, and surrounded by all fifty of his closest college friends, though most of them were actually Julie’s. They had driven out to his parents’ house from Atlanta where they all went to Georgia State, and they were ready to celebrate the Prince’s victory.

It was late May 2002, and the moist night air was crisp. Francis stood tall in a white button down shirt rolled up at the sleeves and tucked into a pair of dark, worn jeans. Julie radiated beauty in a plum summer dress with a black cardigan on top. They were the perfect example of Stubborn Julie and her Prince.

Tea lights and strings of LEDs lit up his parents’ backyard, and it was filled to bursting with college kids. Mr. González’ prized lawn was getting trampled by one hundred pairs of feet, but he didn’t care and couldn’t stop smiling at his Francis who overcame so much and had been accepted into medical school! Can you believe it, amor? Our son! A doctor!

In all of the hustle and bustle of finishing his undergraduate degree, applying to medical school, and getting his life in order, he hadn’t thought much about his younger brother. In fact, it had been three months since the name Alex walked across his mind. Francis had been happier and his life had had more purpose. He and Julie were even discussing what marriage might mean to their relationship, and making moves to find a home together. So it was a shock when he was abruptly reminded of his baby brother.

Francis and Julie were talking in the corner of the party with one of Julie’s couple friends, Heather and Grace. The group of four was stuck between two ferns and the corner where the yard fence met the back alley wall. Francis was shoved all the way in, surrounded on three sides by the women who were having an animated discussion on which of their professors was more likely to write them better recommendation letters. Francis was fit to bursting with love for his girlfriend, for his parents, and for all the people who came here to share this special moment with him.

His eyes wandered the party, and he wasn’t paying attention to the conversation. Francis raised his red solo cup of beer to his lips to take a deep swallow.

“-Alex, though,” Julie said, and the liquid in Francis’ throat caught and he doubled over choking and sputtering.

“Frank, are you okay?” she asked, concerned. Her small hand rubbed his back while he leaned on his knees coughing.

“Yeah,” he croaked out, standing back up. “What were ya’ll talking about?” Francis kept his face smooth and impassive, but fear coiled in his gut.

“Oh, just baby names,” Heather laughed, her dark skin bending beautifully around her white teeth in a smile that showed she had no idea what Francis was afraid of. He sagged a little in relief.

“See, Julie!” Grace cackled, her tall frame bent, face split into a grin. “He’s as much a guy as any other! Freaking out about baby names. And you think he’s ready for marriage?”

The three women had a good laugh, and Francis laughed along, playing the part of the doting, bumbling man. He excused himself to go in the house and change shirts.

Every step he took towards the house was another time Alex echoed in his mind. Six steps up to the porch was Alex Alex Alex Alex Alex Alex. Walking inside and closing the sliding door was Aleeeeeex. He turned around quickly, his back to the door, and his dark, wild eyes searched the room for something, but he didn't know what.

He went up the stairs to his room (Alex Alex Alex…) and grabbed a new shirt out of his closet. This one was black and freshly ironed, and Julie said it brought out his brown-black eyes. He pulled it on carefully and looked at himself in the full-length mirror Mrs. González had given him last Christmas. You’re a man now, Francis, she’d said. You must look your best.

And so Francis Moore looked at himself in the mirror. His black shirt really did bring out the brown of his eyes, and tucked into his jeans he was a dark vision of Southern hospitality. His curly hair danced around his head, the ringlets black and dangling in his eyes. He pulled at one curl and thought absently to himself that he needed a haircut soon.

Then his eyes shot back to the mirror, and he remembered his brother, and he remembered that he’d forgotten about his brother, and he hated himself for that.

Francis turned the mirror against the wall so he didn't have to see himself, and he walked over to the window to look down at the party below. He wished Alex could be here. He wished Alex could be part of the family Francis had made. He wished he could pick up Alex from wherever he was and insert him into his life. But, he reminded himself, I can’t see him.

His mind played over that smudged paragraph in the stack of paper in his bottom bedside drawer, hidden under a stack of pristine pornographic magazines.

...For his safety, he is not to be contacted by Francis, and he is not to contact Francis. If either of them are caught with each other, or attempting to make contact with each other…

But an internet search didn’t count, right? Francis had gone back and forth on this. He didn’t know how much could be seen of his internet activity. Could the cable company see it? Could his parents? Could the courts get that information?

He’d accepted his punishment so fully, and had intended to go the rest of his life without seeing his brother again, but his horror at forgetting Alex cracked his self-restraint. And so, as on that night eight years prior, he crossed a boundary.

Francis quietly padded into the computer room and nervously typed in Alexander Joshua Moore July 2nd 1982 into the search engine and hit enter. The computer made the beep boops and grinding sounds that indicated the dial-up modem was engaging, and finally a single search result popped up on the screen.

Alexander Joshua Moore. Born July 2nd, 1982. Deceased August 21st, 2000… Sudden car accident… High school graduate… closed casket… no one at fault…

“No,” Francis whispered to the dark room, his face lit by the electric light from the monitor like a jack-o-lantern of misery, eyes hollow, mouth a tight line sloping down at either end.

“No,” leaking out of him like helium from a balloon.

“No,” a begging, an offering to someone out there to make this not true, to take it back, to fix things.

“No,” silent, remorseful, stagnant, resigned.

Quickly, Francis deleted the search history and turned off the computer. He sat in the black, blending into the darkness, losing himself to it and fading at the edges.

Julie would find him like that a couple hours later after the guests had all left and she remembered to find her boyfriend.

The Francis Moore who entered that room two hours before was not the same Francis Moore who left it. Within a month, he’d proposed to Julie and was preparing to go to medical school. They signed a lease for an apartment, and he was the perfect attentive partner and student. Everyone commented on how lovely they were together, and Julie appreciated how Francis had “matured” since his undergrad days. What Julie wanted became what Francis wanted. He had been so thoroughly punished by God for who he was and what he’d done that he gave up his last reserves of selfishness and lived only for other people.

It wasn’t until a man walked into Dr. Moore’s clinic with a nasty gash on his arm that Francis felt a stirring of that selfishness that he’d tried to so deeply cut out of himself.

And Damian Glass would do anything to get what he wanted.

Chapter Text

The town’s hospital was large, imposing, and left to disrepair and disuse. It was built with a grant from the governor, meant to revitalize smaller towns with aging populations. Besides the initial injected investment of construction costs and materials, the hospital was a money suck for the town, and was usually empty and unused, except for the front lobby in the center of the building and opening to the parking lot, and a single patient room that was kept stocked with supplies.

The outside was slate grey with wings stretched out on either side. One hundred dark windows watched the large parking lot in the front where the asphalt was cracked and puckered from a decade of neglect. On cloudy days, the front of the building looked like a hundred arachnid eyes watching and judging all who dared enter.  

Too many trees to count had been cut down to make room for the massive structure in the old forest, and a long winding road connected it to the state highway that ran through the town. It was at most a fifteen minute drive to any point in the town, which was good for the residents because the next closest hospital was in Atlanta, an hour's drive away.

Dr. Francis Moore loved the isolation and general lack of visitors. It remained open by the grace of God (and a small annual fund from the state government). During the rainy season, he would leave the windows open and get lost in the whispering of leaves in the trees, and the hard drumming of rain against the roof and echoing in the fifty empty rooms through the hospital. He hadn't imagined having a practice like this in medical school, one without many patients and too much free time, but he appreciated it immensely. He needed to be alone, and as a husband, father, and community leader, he was never alone. Here at the empty hospital he could be alone. Here, he didn't have to pretend to be someone he wasn't. Here, he didn't have to hide his grief.

Dr. Francis Moore, thirty eight years old, six foot three, father of two and married for sixteen years, took another bite of the egg salad sandwich his wife had made for lunch, the hard surface of the break room table digging into his elbows, the stale crumbs from a week’s worth of crusts grinding into his exposed forearms. His white doctor’s coat was slung over the chair next to him, and the long sleeves on his pale blue button down were rolled up to the joint between his forearm and bicep. Crumbs fell carelessly onto his straight-leg khaki pants, and his dark eyes were distracted by whatever that day’s news was on his phone.

Francis was mid-bite, sandwich poised in the air in front of his face, mouth wide open, when his front desk attendant slash nurse slash secretary ran into the room, her comfortable white hospital shoes smacking loudly on the linoleum.

Out of breath and gasping for air, she addressed him.

“Frank, you gotta come see this,” she gestured wildly with her hands, beckoning the doctor to follow her.

Francis put down his half-eaten sandwich on the brown paper towel on the crumb-covered table and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What's going on, Maureen?” he asked carefully, not wanting to get caught up in her hysterics. Maureen Hammerschmidt, forty-six years old, had the body and platinum blonde hair of a Mid-America soccer mom, but didn't have the children to show for it. She lived with her elderly mom in a small two bedroom house in town, and had a flair for the dramatic.

“You know that project? The Fraggle one? The new Internet super fast optical illusion or something one?” Maureen spoke fast, almost unintelligible in her excitement.

“Yes, I know the project.”

“Well, you know the team they sent here to work on it? The fancy Fraggle team? The engineers or scientists or whathaveyou?”

“I've heard there's a few people from the company staying in town and overseeing the project, yes.”

“Well, one of them is in our lobby and is bleeding out all over the floor!”

“Shit-” was about all Francis managed to get out before he was pushing past Maureen and running into the lobby.

He made it down the short hallway in five long steps, through the double swinging doors in one, and came to a halt next to the man who Maureen had described as bleeding out all over the floor. Quickly he assessed the situation, gently placing his hands on the man’s left arm and pushing up his sleeve to see the extent of the damage. He determined that while there was a trickle of blood dripping onto the floor from the wound, it was falling at a declining rate, injury was not life-threatening, and would require nothing more than stitches and ibuprofen. Francis, having filed away that information in his mind, released the arm, and finally took stock of the man in front of him.

The man was shorter than Francis, maybe 5’ 10” or 11”, and younger by at least a decade. His fashionable short-on-the-sides-long-on-top, perfectly styled blonde hair stuck up in odd places, probably due to whatever had caused his injury and the mad dash to the hospital, and the remains of what had probably been a very expensive olive jacket were tied around his upper arm. His rust-colored t-shirt made of some buttery material clung to his chest, and the dark blue jeans on his legs were the kind of indigo that was only maintained by not working hard. The blood dripping down the well-toned bicep was bright red, and was in high contrast with his pale skin. He looked as if he never went outside, and had perfected his body in a gym. His face was ashen, a healthy flush gone from his cheeks and spilling out of the gash on his arm. As Francis’ gaze made its way to the man’s face, he noticed high cheekbones, a perfect narrow nose, a strong jaw, and the most beautiful blue eyes he’d ever seen that were fixed on his, the expression nameless but powerful.

Francis was caught in those eyes, trapped in them, and felt his heart beat once in his chest, loud and strong and low.

Francis broke the tension with a small smile and extended his hand.

“I’m Dr. Moore, son,” Francis said gently. “I’m gonna get you patched up and on your way.”

A soft, warm hand slid into Francis’ large, rough one, and languidly moved up and down twice in the air in a smooth handshake.

“Damian Glass, at your service.” Damian’s smile was wide, white, and predatory. He removed his hand from Francis’ slowly, his middle finger trailing down the middle of the doctor’s palm. “And don’t call me son, old man.”

Francis’ hand tingled from the contact, and he quickly shoved it into the pocket of his khakis.

“Maureen, help Mr. Glass into the patient’s room and I’ll be there in just a moment.”

The nurse quickly moved to put pressure on Damian’s arm and led him back through the double doors. Francis turned to his patient’s companion, finally noticing the other person standing in the lobby of his empty hospital.

“You’re welcome to wait here for your friend, ma’am.”

“That asshole’s not my friend, but thanks, I’ll stay. Gotta make sure the project leader doesn’t croak,” the woman in grey chuckled to herself. She was short, with cropped auburn hair, dark skin, and tailored clothes that screamed designer.

“Yes, well. Alright,” Francis said, then swiftly moved through the double doors to tend to his patient.

His patient, with eyes like ice that cut through him to the bone; a glacier cracking in half.

His patient, with soft hands and flirtatious fingers perfect for stroking.

His patient, with a handsome, supple body and an aura that Francis wanted to inhale, to invade.

His patient, who would ruin his life.

But Francis didn’t know that yet.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

Oh.

It was all I could think as the attractive doctor ran to me across the lobby. Dr. Francis Moore, or Frankie, as I couldn’t stop calling him in my head, moved with strong, purposeful strides, his large frame focused completely on helping me. Finally he was next to me, and my entire body thrummed at the proximity. My arm throbbed where the winch had cut through the skin, and the same place where Darcy had tied my very expensive jacket much too tightly. The same jacket that just the other day she’d commented as being tacky and counterproductive to corporate’s assimilation directives.

Yes, I’d responded, and your discount designer wardrobe is absolutely understated and not at all still more expensive than anything anyone else in this shitty town will be wearing. I ignored the expletives she threw my way in favor of, oh, I don’t know, working on the goddamn project we were sent to this backwater town to complete.

But standing there, my arm in Frankie’s large, warm hands, my blood falling to the ground with a quiet pitter patter, the pain hit me harder than I’d expected.

Who knew that a frayed winch could snap suddenly, hitting whoever was next to it?

Apparently the whole construction crew had known that little tidbit of information, which is precisely why they were perfectly fine while I was bleeding and throbbing and aching in front of the most handsome man in town. What can I say? My job is to code and run the project, not know about safety and wellness practices in some forest in Nowhere, Georgia.

Watch out! They’d shouted, so concerned. Get out of the way! Of course I didn’t hear them because my ear protection was firmly fixed on my head and I was looking the other way, in the direction of the van with the banks of computer, and waving at Darcy to come over and look at the power levels on my tablet.

Her frantic waving in return could have been her way of saying (as she so often enjoys saying), Hey, asshole! Leave me the hell alone! I’m trying to work! Of course I refused to move. I’m her project leader, not the other way around.

And then… thwack. I’m knocked to my knees. How did I get here? Numbness. Wetness on my arm. Looking over and realizing I’m seeing through my skin because it has opened up and now I’m bleeding and now the pain is hitting and it hurts.

It hurts worse than I thought it would.

I first saw the doctor a few months ago, shortly after arriving in town to start construction. I was trying to swallow mouthfuls of disgusting coffee in the furthest back booth at the local (read: only) diner, terribly bored, when a man in a white lab coat walked by the large front windows. I wouldn’t have noticed him, except for the coat. It was so bright, and that day was overcast. It glowed against the sky and the rest of the worthless grey town.

I watched this man with curiosity, and saw him greet a woman with a small child on the sidewalk. The woman looked up at him with such gratitude, such openness, and a coy grin. If I hadn’t lost my appetite from the coffee already, that smile would’ve done the trick.

Suddenly, the man in the white coat picked up the child and spun her around. I could barely hear her laughter, but her joy was apparent on her face.

In that moment, I hated her.

The man said his goodbyes and walked into the diner. The little bell above the door jingled, and Dr. Francis Moore, as it said on his coat, politely talked and smiled with the cashier as she grabbed a blueberry muffin for him.

I could clearly see him now, a vision with a strong jaw and black eyes. He was tall with dark curly hair down to his ears, tan skin, and broad shoulders. He also looked tired, with dark circles under his eyes and five o’clock shadow despite the fact that it was 8am on a Saturday.

I could finally hear his voice, too, and it was deep with a Southern lilt. Utterly divine.

Then, the tall, dark, and handsome doctor walked out of the diner and back the way he had come, and I was left with a cold cup of coffee, a serious case of blue balls, and a newfound determination.

So there I was, in a shitty, run-down hospital in a town called Nowhere staring at the most handsome man I’d ever seen. After what felt like an eternity, and after he’d finished assessing my injury, he raised his eyes to mine.

In that moment, electricity traveled down my spine and shocked me to my core, and I knew it had all be worth it. Finally I was here, with my obsession only inches away, where before he had been feet and yards and miles. Catching glances of the doctor in town hadn’t been enough; I’d needed to get closer.

And I’d finally devised a way.

Cutting the winch rope almost all the way through, bullshitting my way into standing next to it, wearing my ear protection so no one would think it strange that I wasn’t getting out of the way when they were yelling at me, ignoring Darcy’s obvious concern for my safety, and then ruining a perfectly good outfit. It had hurt so much worse than I’d thought.

But yes, it had been worth it.

And yes, I would do it all over again.

And yes. This was going to be fun.

I couldn’t stop a smile from cracking my face in half.

Chapter Text

Francis’ hand shook as he reached for the necessary supplies in the dusty medicine closet. Gauze, needle, thread, iodine, alcohol swabs… he ticked off items in his mind and tried to forget the steel blue eyes and prickling touch of Damian Glass.

He leaned against the closed closet door and took deep breaths to still the pounding in his chest. Francis didn’t have time for this, he didn’t have time to lose his composure and be so affected by a strange man. He had to treat his patient, and then he could go back to sitting alone and staring out the window. It was bland and boring and predictable, and utterly soothing. Yet, such things felt a lifetime ago.

Francis calmed himself and gathered handfuls of supplies. In his rush to the lobby, he’d forgotten his white coat which now lie neglected on the chair in the break room. He gathered everything up in his hands and prayed that nothing dropped. Opening the closet door was difficult with full hands, but he managed. He walked the few short steps to the only patient room they ever had prepared and tried to open the door. The handle to the door rattled but didn’t make the quarter-turn rotation necessary to open.

“Maureen, open the door, please,” Francis called out, trying not to drop any of the supplies.

The door opened, but it wasn’t Maureen on the other side.

“Need help, Doc?”

There stood Damian with a smirk. Blond. Beautiful. Intimidating. And in obvious pain. His face was pale, and his brow was furrowed with a light sheen of perspiration.

Francis shook off his flustered, erratic thoughts and applied his doctor’s mask, easily falling into that old code: assess, stabilize, and treat.

“Thank you, Mr. Glass,” Francis‘ Georgian drawl coming in thick due to his heightened anxiety. “Now please get yourself situated up on that there table so I can take a look at your arm.” The door snicked shut behind the doctor as he walked into the room.

The only working examination room in the entire enormous, defunct hospital had a single examination table, a small metal sink, various glass jars of cotton balls, tongue depressors, and bandaids. On the counter next to the sink was an opened box of gloves. On the wall were posters covering a wide range of human health and wellness, from the effects of smoking on an unborn fetus, to how swallowing works. A small trash bin was tucked away in one corner, and on the wall next to the exam table hung a blood pressure monitor and a lighting device for looking in eyes, ears, noses, and throats. A single rolling, circular, backless chair sat unused, and the pink pastel puke-colored walls completed the picture.

Damian climbed up on the plastic-covered examination table, white safety paper crinkling as he settled in, and sat leaning forward, his weight supported by his hands, his expression intense but unreadable. Francis turned to set down the supplies before they could fall out of his hands, and the hair on the back of his neck stood up as though he could feel Damian’s eyes on his back.

“I love your accent,” Damian spoke clearly, carefully, and Francis turned to find him examining a poster about prostate cancer.

“My accent?” Francis chuckled in surprise, Damian’s voice knocking him out of the self-conscious loop he’d been stuck in. He pulled on a pair of neoprene gloves and picked up angled safety scissors with blunted ends. “You know, Mr. Glass, to me, it’s you who have the accent,” Francis spoke, his o’s longer and his a’s more ey than they would have been if he’d grown up north of the Mason-Dixon Line.

“Now what ever do you mean by that?” Damian’s lilting voice shot back, his blue eyes flicking to connect with Francis’ dark brown ones and his mouth still curled up at the edges.

Francis stood frozen, his eyes locked on Damian’s, and he struggled to come up with an appropriate reply.

“Oh, my deepest apologies, Mr. Glass. I meant nothin’ by it. Now please, if you’ll let me just take a look at your arm.”

“Of course, Doc.”

Francis approached him with the scissors held in his gloved hand, and Damian leaned back away from him.

“What are the scissors for? Not cutting off anything important, I hope?” Damian asked, an eyebrow raised quizzically, his smile teasing.

“Not at all, Mr. Glass. I need to remove your sleeve to fully clean and treat the injury.”

“Why just the sleeve? Why not the whole shirt?” Damian’s voice was light.

“I… If you’re comfortable with that, that would probably be for the best. I just didn’t wanna…”

“What didn’t you want to do?”

“It’s nothin’, I just don’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”

“There’s nothing about you that could possibly make me uncomfortable. You couldn’t hurt a lamb, and I am no blushing virgin. Cut it all off, Doc.”

“Alright, Mr. Glass.”

Francis set the scissors down next to Damian on the exam table, and gently pulled off the ruined olive jacket tied around his patient’s upper arm as a make-shift and poorly constructed tourniquet. Francis set the jacket down on the counter next to the sink, and picked up the scissors once again.

Blood had dried deep into the dark indigo fabric of Damian’s once-pristine jeans. His soft, rust colored t-shirt was wrinkled, pulled out of shape, and dark in places where the red of Damian’s blood mingled with the red of the shirt; red, the color of a sun setting over an old, dead world; red, the color of decaying industry; red, the color of a river polluted with too little oversight, too few regulations.

To Francis, Damian was beautiful.

Chapter Text

Dr. Francis Moore made the first cut at the left sleeve of the ruined shirt, moving from the bottom all the way up to Damian’s neck. Damian’s warm skin burned Francis whenever his gloved hand would accidentally touch his patient. The doctor had to stand closely, and he could smell Damian’s underlying musk. It was cinnamon, and heat, and something else that lit Francis’ blood on fire.

The next cut moved from the collar of Damian’s shirt down his chest. Each snip of the scissors revealed another inch of perfect, pale skin.

Francis pulled the defeated garment down Damian’s right arm, and his patient’s upper body was completely exposed.

Damian Glass had a body clearly built by a trainer and nutritionist. He was lithe and lean, muscles defined but not overly so. A narrow waist tapered down from broad shoulders, and a flat stomach gracefully followed. His arms were strong, biceps gently sloping out then in, and his forearms were toned in the way that all computer programmers are toned: large, strong, and perfect for gripping. His chest was also hairless, and free of any scars or tattoos.

The first thing that Francis noticed was that Damian’s pink nipples were hard. The second thing he noticed was that Damian’s eyes followed him in the same way that a cat’s follow a bird. A deep blush spread across Francis’ tan cheeks.

“Like what you see, Doc?” Damian’s voice was husky, his natural tenor sinking lower, a little gravel added to the mix.

Francis was frozen, the scissors still in his gloved hand. Damian’s chest rose up and down, his breath hot.

“I-”

Damian laughed, his head thrown back and one hand holding his exposed stomach.

“Jesus Christ! I was just kidding! You looked like I asked you to jump off a cliff,” Damian shook his head, wiping tears out of his eyes. “Now can you stitch me up? My arm is killing me.”

“Of course, my deepest apologies.” Francis threw Damian’s shirt on top of his jacket on the counter, and prepared the necessary items. He cleaned the injury, injected lidocaine, and stitched up his patient. Damian attempted to make small talk, but Francis replied with single word answers to each question, so they mostly sat in silence while Francis finished.

“We’re done here,” Francis said as he threw away his gloves into the biohazard disposal bin.

“Fantastic,” Damian replied, examining his newly stitched up arm. He raised a hand to it.

“Stop!” Francis exclaimed, but it was too late.

“That feels incredibly strange.”

“You aren’t supposed to touch it, Mr. Glass,” Francis said with an exasperated sigh.

“And what can I touch, Dr. Moore?” Damian asked, a world-weary yet playful look thrown at Francis.

Francis stood there, blinking his eyes, a blush once again stealing across this face.

“Fucking hell, Doc. Learn to take a joke,” and Damian was once again laughing. He stood up from the table. “Guess I’ll be leaving now. Maybe next time we see each other, you will have found a sense of humor. Or,” Damian paused here, looking from Francis’ feet all the way up his body, pausing on his belt, and ending on his face, his eyes devouring all of Francis, “maybe you’ll have found something else.” He turned his back to Francis, and the good doctor couldn’t stop from staring at the way Damian’s muscles twisted under his pale skin as he walked away; he couldn’t stop from looking at the way his patient’s ass filled out those dark blue jeans perfectly.

The door snicked shut behind Damian as he walked out of the room.

Francis fell onto the round, rolling, backless physician’s chair in the middle of the small room. The force sent the chair sliding backwards and the doctor’s back bumped against the counter.

What is wrong with me?

Francis rubbed his face with his right hand, and remembered how it had touched Damian’s warm skin, how he’d smelled of cinnamon and something else, something unnameable and strong and hot. He turned his head to the side and saw the crumpled shirt and jacket. Francis slid closer to the pile on the counter, the wheels on the chair under him squeaking in protest. A single long arm reached out and touched the cloth with questioning fingers.

Softly, gently, he turned it over and over again in his hands, afraid it would turn to dust if he was too rough. The buttery soft material slid through his fingers, and he slowly closed his fist around the fabric. He brought the clump of fabric to his nose and inhaled deeply, breathing life into his lungs; breathing in cinnamon, and heat, and something else.

Desire. It smells like desire , he thought. Francis had cut off that part of himself for so long that this smell, Damian’s scent , sparked something in him. Immediately, guilt crushed down on him, even as he could feel himself swelling in his pants, even as he pressed the cloth harder to his face. He ground his nose into it, wishing he could snort it like a drug. His nose ached a cold hurt at the bridge from the absolute pressure he used to hold it against himself.

What about Julie?

Julie isn’t here right now.

This is wrong.

You aren’t hurting anyone.

I have to stop.

You can’t stop.

Please...

No.

Before he knew what he was doing, before he could stop himself, he fisted one long, olive sleeve in his hand and dragged it down his body, still holding the rest of the jacket to his face. He moaned as the fabric reached his aching hardness. Francis slid his hand under the waistband of his pants, under his boxer-briefs, and finally pressed the soft material of the jacket against his cock. Everything was too tight, too hot, and he stifled a moan by biting down on the jacket, holding it between his teeth, grinding his molars into it, tasting the sweat and blood and absolute heat from Damian on his tongue.

There he was, sitting in the black, backless physician’s chair, the hard counter cutting into his back; one hand crushing the jacket into his face, the fabric forced down his throat; the other hand shoved into his pants, the jacket sleeve soaking up the moisture leaking from his cock.

Francis’ body was alight with pain and pleasure: the hard counter, his burning mouth and crushed nose, eyes squeezed so tightly shut that it was giving him a headache, the waistband of his pants digging into his wrist, his cock trapped inside a bundle of fabric, his hand cramping from being shoved into such a small place.

All of this was before he even started moving his hand.

Snick .

Francis’ eyes popped open at the sound of the door closing, but no one was there. He tore the cloth out of his mouth and away from his face, coughing at the rough expulsion.

Francis finally remembered where he was, and who he was, and what he was doing.

I am Dr. Francis Moore. I have a wife and two kids. I am happy.

A cold bucket of shame poured down on him from above. His skin went ashen, and he pulled his shaking hand and fistful of jacket out of his pants. The wet spot of precum on the sleeve shone in the flourescent lights of the patient’s room, and guilt settled into his stomach, hot and thick like lead.

I am sick.

I am happy.

I have to stop.

What would Julie think?

He barely made it over to the biohazard disposal container before emptying the contents of his stomach into it: half of the egg salad sandwich his wife had made for lunch, a cup of black coffee, and bile.

Francis took two shaking steps over to the sink, slammed on the tap, and splashed cold water into his hands.

What have I done?

He brought his cupped hands to his face and pressed the icy liquid into his skin; a hasty baptism made by an imperfect man. He brought another cupped hand to his lips and pulled the water in, threading the water through his teeth, gargling it, gliding it across his tongue, trying anything to get the taste of Damian out of his mouth.

I’m disgusting.

Francis held onto the counter with shaking hands, and spit out the water. Guilt chilled him, and his stomach quaked as though he was on a small, small boat in the middle of a hurricane.

A quick knock at the door brought him out of his shame spiral, and immediately he tensed, the muscles in his back and arms flexing, his body ready to fight or flee.

“Frank!”

Oh thank god, it’s just Maureen. For a moment, Francis had thought it would be Damian coming back to finish what he’d started. For a moment, Francis was hopeful and disgusted with himself for being hopeful. A moment later, it was Maureen at the door instead, and his nightmare was over.

His accent thick with his anxiety, Francis drawled, “Yes, Maureen?”

“Mr. Glass needs his jacket. He said he left his key card or somethin’ in it? He said he can’t leave without it. And between you and me, Frank, I want that kid gone.”

Francis balled up the jacket and shirt and took a step towards the door, but he hesitated.

A moment later, he opened up the door just wide enough to shove the jacket at Maureen, hiding his disheveled pants and obvious state of arousal.

“Here you go. Please escort Mr. Glass out of the building.”

“He’s a rough one, isn’t he? A right bastard-”

“Maureen,” Francis interrupted, “we don’t talk about our patients that way. Give this to Dam- Give this to Mr. Glass. I need to set up the room for the next patient,” Francis said, then promptly shut the door in Maureen’s face.

“Bastard,” Maureen grumbled under her breath.

Chapter Text

I absolutely sauntered out of that room, hips swinging, back and arms flexing. I’ve worked hard for this body, and I know how to use it to get what I want.

And what I want right now is for Dr. Francis Moore to fuck me so hard I can’t walk for a week.

Unfortunately, there’s a bit more work that has to go into it before I can get him where I want him. He seemed unsettled by my flirtations, but according to the head of my construction crew, he’s married with kids and very active in the community and church, so it could be an uphill battle to seduce him.

At least, that’s what I thought. Until I walked in on him furiously masturbating while grinding his face into my trashed clothes. I closed the door as quietly as possible and went into the closest open room to catch my breath.

It looked like some sad excuse for a break room. It was cold in here, the sparse windows carelessly left open, and a half eaten sandwich sat on a pathetic, scratched circular table older than I was. A metal chair was thrown back, and draped over another metal chair was an item that absolutely grabbed my attention: one white coat, immaculate, pristine.

I quickly and quietly walked over to it, muffling my footsteps as much as possible, walking heel-toe the way I'd learned as a child to avoid my parents. I held up the jacket and marveled at how big it was, a reminder of his wide shoulders and strong arms. I smelled the jacket collar, and while it held his intoxicating aroma, it also smelled faintly of perfume.

A punch to the stomach would’ve hurt less. Hell, my arm hurt less. Even breathing caused sharp spikes of pain. Within seconds, my rational brain shut off and anger consumed me.

That bitch.

I bet she doesn’t even appreciate him. I bet she doesn’t even love him. I bet he doesn’t even cum inside her, as unsatisfied and hard as he was before they started fucking.

I bet he doesn’t even know what he wants, but I can show him; I can teach him all the ways to be satisfied.

Pleased with myself, I put the jacket back on the chair exactly as I’d found it, but not before taking a little present.

I estimated that three minutes had passed since closing the door on the Doc, so I hurried out of the little, sad room and down the hall, passing through the double doors. I felt a hard object collide with the door, and saw the inept nurse with an ugly soccer-mom haircut bounce off a wall.

“Oops,” I said, and walked over to Darcy who was morosely typing something on her phone. She raised her eyes in the nurse’s direction, and glared at me pointedly.

“Fine, fine,” I grumbled in a most dignified manner, and walked back over to the nurse who was dramatically rubbing her back.

“I am so sorry about that, are you alright?” I extended a hand and gave her my best winning smile, but that bitch brushed it off and just scowled at me.

“I’m quite alright, Mr. Glass. Now if you would please fill out some information-” she started, but I cut her off.

“If there’s anything you need from me, my team will be in contact. But I’m leaving now.”

“Mr. Glass, where’s your shirt?” she asked, her eyes wide in what I’m assuming was arousal because of my uber hot bod. That, or she was having a stroke.

“The good doctor had to cut it off of me. Now if that’s everything…” sudden inspiration hit me. “Actually, nurse,” and here I really turned up the charm, even gently touching her upper arm. “I desperately need my jacket. Could you go get it from the doctor for me? It has my keycard in it, and I’m feeling rather weak.”

“Um,” was her absolutely eloquent reply, and she quickly scanned my torso; her eyes on my skin felt revolting. “Yes, I’ll go get it.” She hurried off, and I walked back over to Darcy.

“What the hell do you need your jacket for, Damian? Just fucking buy a new one.”

“Sentimental value.”

Chapter Text

The rest of Francis’ day passed quickly in a haze of guilt and confusion. Sunlight faded out into pinks and oranges on his drive home; a sun setting on the dying town of Nowhere, Georgia.

Julie was in the kitchen preparing dinner when he stepped through the front door.

They lived in the biggest, nicest home in town, built in a time before the Mason-Dixon Line had been erased; however, that doesn't mean much in a place like Nowhere.

Chapter Text

In those early days, he only came to me when it was raining. Lucky me: it rained most of the time.

Damian, he’d say, breathless and rapturous as he thrust into my body, rain thrumming against the windows. Damian, he’d press against my lips. Damian, he’d release inside of me. Somehow it only encouraged me, the way he’d say my name. It touched something hot and angry and righteous, and fed the flames.

Already, we were closer than I’d ever dreamed; far away from the night I could see everything I’d ever wanted within my grasp, only for it to be ripped away. I used to go back to that night often in my memory, wishing and hoping and fantasizing of a different way it could’ve gone, a way so all of this manipulation hadn’t been necessary, but I do not begrudge what it took to get us here.

Somehow, this way, it was almost better. The pain, the guilt… for Frankie, of course; I feel guilty over nothing. I have nothing to feel guilty for. For the things I love, I have been persecuted, I have died, and there is nothing I would not give up and have not given up.

I have nothing without him. Of course it would always be him. He’s my forever.

It’s dark in my bedroom, and he’s holding me so tightly it hurts. The curtains are open and light from the city pours up into the thirteenth floor windows. He’s on top of me, clutching me to his chest like he’s afraid I’ll fly away.

We’re naked, of course. In the beginning, he’d jump me as soon as I let him in, but I’m teaching him to be patient, to take his time. We have time now, I tell myself. We have all the time in the world.

I have to tell myself this so I don’t go nuclear and destroy his whole fucking life, take him away and make him mine.

We’re naked, and he’s holding me, squeezing my back and shoulders so I’m trapped between him and the bed with no escape. Every thrust is too strong, so strong that my hips stutter with every pound, so strong that precum leaks out of my painful arousal. When he fucks me like this, when he makes love to me like this, I’ve already cum too many times, too many times to reach that precipice again.

But I don’t stop him. Being so completely owned by him in this way, so completely fucked out, being held by him and fucked so far into oblivion that I see stars and lose myself… It’s the only time I feel truly alive. I hold onto my sanity for dear life and trust him to hold me back from the brink, to know when to stop because I won’t tell him to; I’ll never tell him to stop. I’ve been screaming at him for years to take me, ever since we first truly met, and now that I have him here I'll never let anyone stand between me and my happiness ever again, even if that person is myself.

Don’t wake me up from this. Don’t let me wake up from this.

“Hold me tighter, Frankie.”

“I love you, Damian.”

“I know you do.”

Chapter Text

“Where’s your ring, Frank?” Julie asked, stirring a metal pot with a wooden spoon. An empty jar labeled Streggo sat on the kitchen counter next to her.

Francis froze in front of the open refrigerator, pulled out of the fog he’d waded through since a certain patient showed up at his hospital.

I’m a disgusting pervert.

“What was that, honey?”

“Tsk, you don’t have to call me that, no one’s here besides us.”

“Oh, right. Of course.” The refrigerator door closed with a small sucking sound.

“Your ring, Frank. We just got into a fight about this last week! Put the damn thing on.”

“I-” Francis looked down at his naked left hand. “Of course, Jules.” He patted his pockets, turned them inside out, and tried to think back to the last place he’d had it. Work this morning? Where’s my-

“-jacket?”

The spoon in Julie’s hand thunked again the metal pot, and she turned slowly to face him, her expression tense.

“Where’s your white coat, Frank?”

“I-” and Francis was suddenly back at the hospital, clutching torn, bloody fabric to himself, drowning in Damian’s scent.

“I’m fucking tired of this. You don’t have your ring, you don’t have your white coat, what’s next? You gonna forget William’s birthday? Georgette’s fourth grade graduation? Do you realize how it looks to other people when you pull shit like this?”

“Jules…” Francis started, embarrassment flaming hot across his cheeks.

“What do you have to say for yourself? How are you gonna fix this?” Julie’s raised voice echoed around the large kitchen, and she crossed her arms.

“I’m sorry. I’ll fix it. I’ll go get my jacket, it’s in there, and everything will be fine,” he said quietly, his deep voice not much more than a whisper, his eyes turned down.

“Make sure that it is, Frank. Make damn sure that it is.”

Her voice echoed down the hallway behind him on his way to the garage. The road to the hospital was dark and quiet, and no music played over the radio.

As he pulled into the hospital parking lot, it started raining.

Chapter Text

If anyone happened to drive down the winding road into a patch of forest a quarter mile off the main road, they would’ve seen through the rainfall a tall man with broad, slumped shoulders and black curly hair walking through the glass entry doors at the mouth of the hospital, the darkness inside ready to swallow him whole.

Francis’ hand fumbled for the light switch just inside the front doors, the light tremor running through him not helping the situation. Finally the lights turned on, and he let out the breath he’d been holding. He didn’t like the dark.

Locking the doors behind him, he walked past Maureen’s desk and pushed through the swinging double doors and once again was engulfed in darkness. Another fumble, and a single light in the hallway illuminated, casting hollow shadows down the end, leaving every nook and cranny in black emptiness.

The break room was as cold and empty as it ever was, and the rain hit the glass panes of the windows with an accusatory thwack thwack thwack . His white doctor’s coat was exactly where he’d put it, draped across one of the metal chairs around the dingy table he ate lunch at every single day alone.

Why did I forget it? At least it’s where I left it.

Francis picked up the jacket, exactly where he’d left it, and put his hand in the front pocket to grab the ring that was also where he’d left it.

He pulled his hand out, and it took him a moment to recognize what was in it; not a ring, but something else.

Something grey. Something square. Something that had a familiar name typed on the front and a phone number scrawled on the back.

Francis looked at the business card in his hand in confusion. It fluttered out of his hands and landed silently on the banged up lunch table. He grabbed the white coat with enough force that would have torn a weaker fabric, and shook it upside down. A lone chewed piece of gum in a wrapper fell onto the ground. He set the white coat back on it’s chair, and flopped into the same metal folding seat he’d eaten lunch on for years.

He crossed his arms and rubbed his face, the five o' clock shadow turning his skin red. His eyes moved from one object to another, spinning faster and faster.

One piece of trash.

One white jacket.

One business card.

No wedding ring.

Julie is going to kill me.

Chapter Text

The rain falling outside was loud, but not as deafening as the blood pumping in Francis Moore’s ears.

The ring is gone.

Francis lifted one trembling hand and picked up the light grey business card off of the table. One side had printed letters in bold black ink:

FRAGGLE CO.

Damian Glass

Special Projects

On the back of the card in loose script was a ten digit number. Before he could stop himself, his cell phone was in his hand and he was dialing.

One brring. A click.

“Hello, Frankie,” a warm voice purred into his ear. Francis tore the phone away, ended the call and slammed the phone down on the table, the sound echoing the wrong way to suggest that when he picked it back up to look at it, the screen would be cracked.

Shit. Julie’s going to be so upset. As if she won’t already be upset about the missing ring. And being late. And forgetting my jacket.

Francis felt his guilt multiplying until it was too heavy for him to bear. He slumped his shoulders forward and leaned against his hands. Shame began to spiral and take him over the edge into panic until the familiar chirp of his phone told him he was getting a phone call. Francis’ stomach twisted, but he immediately reached for the phone and turned it over, noticing two things.

First, that his screen was definitely cracked, and second, that Damian Glass now had his personal cell phone number and was attempting to make a connection.

Fuck .

Francis stared at the phone until it stopped ringing, and breathed a premature sigh of relief, for what would happen next but a photo message: a single photo of a ring held in the palm of a man who hadn’t done a day’s worth of hard work in his life. Then a text with an address, and the number 1339.

What do I do? What can I do? He has the ring. I need it or I can’t go home. What if Julie asks me where it is? I can’t tell her about this.

The world had always been a very lonely place to Francis, and this was true now more than ever. When he was a boy, he’d had his brother, but his brother was dead, and his parents were gone. Mrs. and Mr. González supported him, but with this? They couldn't  help.

Francis was the only person he had to rely on, and so he did the only thing he could.

Francis grabbed the white jacket, walked out of the hospital, turning off lights and locking up doors. He stepped out into the torrential downpour outside, and put the address into his phone’s gps. Francis drove the 35 minutes up the state route to Macon, the closest city to Nowhere, and parked his car about a block from the building.

The rain didn’t let up in that dark, black night, and by the time Francis was in the elevator and going up to the thirteenth floor he was chilled to the bone and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Out of the elevator, down the hallway, and there it was. Apartment 1339. His heavy breathing echoed off of the closed doors on either side of him, and the rain dripping off his tall frame made satisfying clunk sounds as they hit the red carpet. Francis caught himself, his fist raised inches above the door, ready to shatter the silence of the sleepy building, like the silence of his sleepy life.

His knuckles hit the wood once and it was quieter than he’d thought it would be.

Immediately, the door opened.

Chapter Text

How did I know the exact moment Dr. Francis No-middle-name Moore would knock? Simple. I’m psychic.

Pause for laughter.

I knew the way that I always knew things about Frankie. We had a connection, and the sooner he realized that, the sooner we could live our happily ever after together.

I imagine he was distracted and forgot about the ring somehow. Or maybe he immediately noticed and had hoped that his wife wouldn’t. I wonder if it was a relief not to have it weighing him down through his day. Maybe he dreaded the moment he’d have to go back to his captor, Julie Moore née Encoms.

I hate her. Obviously.

According to Fraggle Maps, it takes 28 to 45 minutes to drive from Nowhere to Macon depending on traffic, and adding a little wiggle room for inclement weather, I actually thought he’d take a little longer. The rain was pouring down and muffling everything outside under its deafening static.

Of course, I’d been waiting for Frankie all day, so I was prepared for his arrival. I wanted to project the image of someone calm and composed, ignorant of any machinations or manipulations. There is time for him to know me fully, but not here, not at the beginning.

I’d showered earlier to get off any blood from my wound, or grime from wandering around that goddamned forest with the construction crew. Washing my hair and applying all of my skin products with one hand was a challenge, especially since I’m left-handed (don’t even ask how I’m going to masturbate later; the few jerks in the shower did more to frustrate me than anything else), and by the time I was clean and mostly dry my arm ached something fierce.

Yet another thing I hadn’t anticipated, but it’s not really my fault; I haven’t been hurt that badly in eighteen years, and the body doesn’t remember pain the way the mind does. Things you think you can handle end up being things that hurt worse than you remember.

At least the perm in my hair held strong and my hair was as straight when I got out of the shower as it was going in, but I could see my roots growing in. About time to go to the salon. I eyed myself and appreciated the way my muscles rippled under my skin; perfect for seducing him with, my dear.

Putting in contacts right-handed also proved to be a challenge, but I managed. I went to the closet and slid aside elegant shirt after elegant shirt. I needed something non-threatening, easy to put on, and even easier to pull off. An article of clothing that said, “I’m not here to steal you from your family and make you mine, but if that happened… would you be down?”

And then I found it: a lightweight cable knit sweater, soft grey in color to bring out the blue of my eyes and paleness of my skin, loose enough to be modest but fitted enough to suggest the shape of my body and broadness of my shoulders. In a word? Perfection.

I didn’t wear an undershirt with it, and paired it with a pair of dark grey sweatpants that cost me close to $300 but were completely worth it for the way they showed off my ass without being vulgar in the front as well. Finally, I slipped my feet into black wool slippers, and turned down the heat in the apartment room to 62°F. I grabbed a couple towels from the bathroom and set them on the small table next to the door.

And then I sat down on the long black couch in the living room and waited.

A small lamp was on next to me while I worked on various projects for my very important job, analyzing data and correcting my underling’s code (Darcy’s work was perfect as always, but I liked to add a few personalizations to fuck with her). I was two whiskey’s deep when I heard the elevator chime. My head cleared of the numbers and text swimming around, and I leapt to the door. I adjusted my sweater, smoothed my hair, and stood in anticipation.

My breath was completely still waiting for Frankie to knock; it felt like eternity, standing there and being patient. He was finally here, on the other side of the door, and I could feel his indecision, feel his panic. I was confident I could handle whatever waited for me on the other side, despite my nerves, and paused half a second after his first knock.

Of course, then I opened the door and it all went to hell. How dare he stand there and look so handsome, all wet and dripping and flustered. How dare he look so terrified yet so imposing, standing there, filling up the frame of the door and blocking the light from the hallway.

How dare Frankie look so delectable.

Chapter Text

The door opened suddenly, and Francis jerked his knocking fist back, startled. He took in the smug look on the face of the man in front of him, fear turned to anger, and had the strong urge to clock Damian right in his perfectly square chin.

“Glass,” the good doctor spat out, his drawl thick, and a name as straightforward and fragile as Glass became something hotter in his mouth, something alive and malleable; molten.

“Frankie! I’m so glad you came,” said Damian, the corners of his mouth pricked up in what could have been a smile if it had been less predatory.

“Do not call me that.”

“Sure, Doc. Now, why don’t you come in out of the hallway before you cause a scene?”

Francis hesitated for a moment; nevertheless, he stepped through the door held open by Damian.

Sterile. That word echoed through Francis’ mind as he looked around the lion’s den he’d just stepped into. The floor under his feet was cold, white marble; this marble continued down three short steps to his right and opened into a swath of white carpet ending at matching corner windows that rose from floor to ceiling; it felt like standing at the edge of the world. A world wiped clean of expectation, of humor, of life.

A single black couch, slim with blue steel edging, floated in the middle of the white expanse. Then a coffee table before it, and a matching loveseat across from it. Two side tables with a lamp on each one (white, of course), and an open laptop with the Fraggle logo on the back sat on the coffee table next to a loose pile of papers.

To his left was probably a kitchen of some sort, and a hallway even further back, but the room was too dimly lit to see much of anything else besides the white, white living room and the pale, handsome man next to him.

No lights were on except for the two side table lamps, the clean white light emanating from them illuminating the dark room as two beacons. The storm raged outside, pounding rain onto the walls of windows, blocking the view of the city. A few lights from buildings filtered through, but the two men were well and truly isolated.

They were alone.

“It’s too dark in here.”

“I can see perfectly.”

Francis saw Damian looking up at him with eyes that showed a profound hunger, and a gentle smile, and he forced himself to turn away.

Unfortunately, marble plus rain plus a very soggy doctor leads to… slippage.

Damian caught him before he could hit the ground, and steadied the taller man on his feet. Now he was in Francis’ space, one arm around his back, one hand clutching a fistful of wet clothes on Francis' chest, and angry panic welled in Francis’ heart. They were much too close, and Damian smelled far better than any person had a right to.

“Get your goddamn hands off of me, Glass.”

Damian let go gently and backed away to the door, gingerly picking up the two towels sitting there, and turned to give them to Francis. Francis grabbed them out of Damian’s hands, afraid of some trick, and watched Damian with weary eyes as the slim, blonde man walked down the short steps and onto the white carpet.

Francis pressed the towel against his head to squeeze out the rain, and when he finally lowered the towel and looked at his tormentor, he saw Damian spread across the black couch horizontally and propped up on one elbow, his grey sweater slightly pulled up exposing a sliver of skin, and his black slippers on the ground next to the couch.

“Please, Fra- Doc,” Damian corrected himself. “Have a seat.”

Francis’ dark brown, naturally curly hair, freed of the product he used to keep it shellacked to his head thanks to the rain baptism, and with water scrunched out of it so that his natural curl pattern was enhanced rather than broken, framed his face like a halo. His brow weighed heavily above his dark eyes, and lines creased his forehead with his scowl.

Julie hated how his hair would poof around his head. She demanded he comb it, he gel it, he keep it calm. He couldn’t look anything less than dignified, anything less than professional, even at the old age of twenty two. He was her prince; she, his queen. What would people think if they saw your natural hair? We can’t have that, can we, Frank?

Francis looked every second of his thirty eight years, years hard fought and painfully won, years he’d take back and years he’d do again, and in this moment, angry and angelic and terrified, he was more himself than he’d been in the sixteen years since he married Julie; perhaps more himself than he’d ever been in his entire life.

He looked dangerous.

For the first time, Dr. Francis Moore looked deadly.

Genesis 1:31 God saw all that he had made, and it was very good.

Chapter Text

Damian sat there on the couch waiting for Francis to say something or do something. Francis stood there in the entry wanting to say or do something, eyeing his captor wearily.

“Give me my ring please, Mr. Glass,” Francis’ tone was sharp, cutting. His manners, beaten into him by a long life living in Georgia, were impeccable, but the warning in his voice was clear.

Do it, or else.

A smile danced across Damian’s face and he gestured to a half-full crystal decanter of some brown liquid on the kitchen counter; a concrete counter to create a severe juxtaposition with the marble floor, the Architectural Review had said of this particular apartment.

“Want a drink, Doc? They’re quite good. 300 year old single malt scotch. Cost me a pretty penny. You know, my scotch guy said-”

Of course he has a scotch guy, Francis thought. Despite how desperately he wanted to wrap his lips around a glass of brown oblivion, that wasn’t an option.

“I do not partake. Now, the ring.”

“It’s such an ugly ostentatious thing, I just had to try it on,” Damian chuckled, and pulled out the offending creature from his pocket: a thick gold band with a massive square cut diamond in the center, with two rows of smaller diamonds on either side surrounding the center diamond like the walls of a prison. “And then, to my horror, it wouldn’t come off! The only thing I could do was come home, use something slippery, and slide it off. I left my number so you’d know where you could find it. I’m actually surprised it took you so long to call.”

Damian looked thoughtfully up at Francis.

“Why did it take you so long to call, Doc?”

Francis stood there on the cold marble floor, dripping water, his brow furrowed and fists clenched at his sides.

Why did it take me so long to call? What can I say? Why am I here? I should’ve just gone home.

But Julie.

“Look here, Mr. Glass. I do not owe you a single word of explanation, and your story is thin at best.” At this, Francis pointed a rigid finger at Damian. “There is no way that my wedding ring, which my wonderful wife picked out for me with love, would get stuck on a hand as thin as yours.”

“So,” Damian looked up at Francis through long dark lashes. “You’ve noticed my hands?”

“Glass,” Francis growled out, all pretense of politeness discarded. He took a step towards his captor sprawled across the black couch.

Damian offered the ring in his open palm.

“Here: if you want it, come take it.”

“I do not have time for these games.”

“No games. If you want it, here it is. No tricks. Cross my heart.”

“What heart?” Francis scoffed, but took careful steps down the short marble stairs until he stood fully on the white carpet.

“It’s such a shame,” Damian sighed, his eyes travelling up and down Francis’ body.

“What is?”

“You’re getting mud on my carpet.”

“Fuck you.” Francis snapped.

“You first.”

Muddy boots took heavy steps across the sea of white, until the tall, dark man loomed over small, pale Damian Glass.

“Take what you want, Frankie.”

A single hand slid around the back of Francis’ knee, not using any force to hold him there, but just enough pressure to dissipate any ambiguity. Damian leaned into the space just in front of  Francis’ hip, and looked up at him with big blue eyes.

“Stay,” he said. Not a command, or an order, but an invitation.

Francis could feel the heat emanating from Damian’s hand, from his face, and from his eyes. His gaze was wolfish, hungry, and his request, stay. Asking Francis what he wanted by telling him what Damian desired.

Francis twitched in his pants. Damian noticed.

The hand behind Francis’ knee tightened, and nails dug into his flesh. The muscle in Francis’ jaw spasmed as his teeth ground together. Pink ran across Francis’ cheeks, the blush heating his face in the cold apartment air. He was on fire, and he had to escape.

“Are you happy?” Damian asked, but that was a mistake, because Francis’ hand closed around the ring offered to him, and he all but ran out the door.

“Wait!” but Francis was gone, and Damian was once again, as always, alone.

Chapter Text

Julie Moore didn’t care about him, but Francis didn’t realize that yet.

Julie hadn’t cared that he came home late, stepping in out of the rain; soaked to the bone and shivering. She was in bed, asleep, snoring. Unconcerned, unaffected, she slumbered.

Francis quietly, carefully, changed out of his wet clothes. The pants were the hardest thing to take off, and not only because removing wet slacks is a fool's errand, the material sticking in the worst places, the zipper refusing to slide down, because oh, wouldn't it be so much more fun to get stuck?

So yes, the pants themselves were a challenge, but what was also a challenge was the erection that kept trying to rise to attention whenever his mind wandered unbidden to Damian Glass.

Why. Why? Why did he ask me to stay? To take what I want.

I cannot take what I want. I can never.

What was Francis to do? He needed to avoid Glass, that was sure. He needed to stay far away and never allow himself to be in the same room with him. To run away if he had to, because Francis, King of Repression, Master of Self-Denial, could feel his walls cracking around him; could feel his resolve to deny himself all things pleasurable and illicit dissolving.

What is a man without his resolve?

A monster.

He didn't dream that night. The late hours were the blankest and blackest they'd ever been, and what sweet relief can be found in oblivion.

Chapter Text

The dry toast crumbled to ash in his mouth, mixing with saliva and turning to gum. Every opening of his mouth took effort, and the only thing that could break through was the putrid black coffee he gulped like salvation.

In the stainless steel modern monstrosity of a kitchen that Julie lovingly referred to as her “hive” whenever the book club gals came over, every bite of breakfast around the center island came with a free helping of criticism.

Julie loved spending the money he made as the town's only doctor, and the paycheck the government cut him each month to stay in Nowhere went directly into each of his kids' college funds, a place Julie and her fast hands couldn't touch. She knew he kept this money from her, and they often got into arguments about it; arguments where he would sit silently with a warm glass of something akin to lighter fluid, and she would stand in front of him, stomping and seething and making as much noise as she could without waking the children.

I give you everything, Julie. Why can't you let me have this?

Even this, the time when he was the most selfish with her, with anyone… even here, he was acting selflessly, providing for his children's futures, working and hoping and praying that they'd have an easier life than him.

Him and Alex.

Georgette (No Papa, George, she insisted regularly) Wilhelmina Moore was nine and whip-smart. She loved climbing the tall Southern Oaks in the backyard, and often snuck off with the other kids in the neighborhood to explore the woods surrounding their properties. More than once, she'd come home with a pet frog or squirrel, and Francis had taught her the important life lesson that if you love something, you must let it go if it is not meant to belong to you.

But Papa, I love Mr. Jumpy! Why can't I keep him?

Tears running down her face, cheeks red and puffy from crying. Her wavy, light brown hair, so unlike his and unlike her mother's, glinting in the sunlight.

Sugarpie, Mr. Jumpy doesn't belong inside. He deserves a full life outside this house, exploring and jumping and starting a little frog family of his own.

But he wants to stay with me!

You know he doesn't, Sugarpie. If you love him, let him go.

Okay Papa.

And time after time, she'd go back into the forest, and come home later empty handed, laughing and running through the halls and tracking mud that Julie would complain about (as if she ever cleaned anything; they had a housekeeper for that), but Francis would quiet her, too, with a smile and a pat, and go back to reading the newspaper, and pretend every day that letting someone go was better for them, even if they said they wanted to stay.

Even if they showed otherwise with their heart, their mind; their body. Sometimes people can't be trusted to know what they want.

Some people can't be trusted at all. 

His son, William (Not Will!!!, the little boy would scream at him if he slipped up and used his nickname) Julius Moore, had his mother's blonde hair and his father's medium tan skin tone. Named after Julie’s father, William Julius Encoms, she doted on him more than she deigned to even look at George. She took him to ballet, art lessons, private tutors, and though he was only six, he was a handful of privilege and education. Where George was always covered in something black or sticky, William was pristine, poised, and polished. The Encoms' genes ran strong in him, and Francis worried about how much money they were spending on the little boy.

Francis loved both of his children dearly, and celebrated their strengths and weaknesses, but his connection to George was different than with William.

And so standing up to Julie about how much money went into the children's college accounts wasn't just about making sure she didn't spend every penny he earned on appliances that connect to wifi, or covering the antique wood of the living room floor in tacky, expensive rugs; it was also about ensuring that their parents' favoritism (yet another thing for Francis to feel guilty over) didn't have any effect on their future potential. George wouldn't have to go to the local community college for lack of funds while her brother went to Stanford, unless that's what she wanted. Francis was determined that both his children would have opportunity.

He could never escape the damage that June and Geoff Moore had done to him, but he could sure as hell make sure that his kids were never at the mercy of their parents' moods.

He was a good dad.

Francis was an excellent father.

Always as good of a father as he could be. And until, despite his best efforts, he wasn't. 

Chapter Text

It was Saturday morning, and Francis hadn’t been sleeping well. It was a few weeks since the incident with his wedding ring, and he’d been hyper vigilant, keeping an eye on it at all times, wearing it more than usual, keeping it in his pants pocket instead of his lab coat pocket. He also kept an eye out for Damian Glass, seeing him in shadows and out of the corner of his eye, but when he looked more closely, there was no one there, and nothing to worry about.

Nothing to be afraid of.

Fear, guilt, these things were normal to Francis, they were his everyday reality, but usually it was background radiation on an otherwise uneventful life. Unfortunately, Damian Glass had shaken things up, stirred the numbing cocktail that was Francis’ life, and he couldn’t risk anything ruining the pleasant suburban hell he’d built for himself.

Of course, he didn’t see it as a hell. He saw it as just and righteous, a pious man with a beautiful wife and two lovely children. A pillar of the community who volunteered and helped little old ladies across the road. Francis couldn’t see the truth because it was too terrifying, too monumental.

Francis was taking a little longer than usual to get ready that morning, slowly pulling his worn blue jeans up his long legs. They were as muscled as they’d always been, but when it came time to button up the jeans over his hips, his stomach was a little softer than it used to be, and the fit was snug. Sifting through the drawer where the house keeper kept his old t shirts that his lovely wife kept trying to throw away, he found one of his dark blue Georgia State shirts, faded over the sixteen years since his bachelor’s graduation. It was less roomy than when he’d first gotten it, and the soft material stretched over his shoulders and around his strong arms, but he would never get rid of it. Those were some of the happiest years of his life, and he felt guilty over why they were so happy for him, but that didn’t change the fact that before he found out that Alex had died, he was happy. As happy as someone like him could be, anyway.

Happy with ignorance. Happy with possibility. Happy that without him in his life, Alex would go on to be successful, start a family of his own, and never be burdened by Francis ever again.

The slamming and swearing in the kitchen downstairs finally stopped, and Francis waited a few minutes longer before risking coming down from the bedroom. When Julie got into one of her moods, it was better to avoid her, lest her scope land on him. It was such a beautiful morning, birds chirping, sun shining, and it would be a shame to ruin it. The kids were with his adoptive parents, Mrs. and Mr. González, for the weekend, and Julie should’ve already been on the road, driving the 35 minutes up the state road to Macon for a weekly hot yoga session with her college friends who lived in the big city. She was usually gone until late into the night, sometimes not coming home until the next morning. Francis looked forward to having the house and the kids to himself for the night. George was allowed to have her friends over and make as big a mess as they wanted, which he’d stay up late cleaning after she went to bed, and Will- no, William, was allowed to sit in front of the TV and watch as many war documentaries as he wanted without his mother around to limit him. However, since the kids were with his parents, he was going to be completely alone.

At least, he was supposed to be.

Francis entered the large silver kitchen with blinking appliances, and made his way over to the coffee pot.

The empty coffee pot.

Julie was sitting at the center island, an empty mug next to her, and texting furiously on her phone, the latest something or other from Fraggle’s line of cellphones. Their phones were the most expensive, and supposedly the best, though Francis didn’t understand how one phone could cost over $1,000 and be worth it. Phones only needed to make calls, text, and play music, as far as he was concerned.

“Morning, Jules.”

She didn’t respond, and kept typing furiously at her phone.

Francis didn’t want to break her concentration and risk her wrath, but the energy in the kitchen was strange and mostly he just wanted a cup of coffee. He decided to risk it.

“Are we out of coffee?” He drawled, nerves deepening his accent.

“Nope. The fucking machine is broken.”

Francis looked at the coffee pot, an expensive one from Italy with over 35 function and a touch pad on the front. A blinking touch pad. He looked around to the other appliances in the kitchen that had probably cost him over $30,000 to meet Julie’s whims, and noticed that every one of them had a blank or blinking or bright white screen. From the fridge to the microwave to the stove to the toaster, and more appliances that Francis didn’t actually know what they did, were out of commission.

He pulled out his phone and tried to connect to the WiFi, and found that as soon as he tried, his phone went blank, a bright white screen showing now instead of the background picture of George and William in a rare state of harmony, both smiling like they loved each other, and covered in finger paint. The painting they made together hung in the office of the large home, and he looked at it often to remind himself of what was important in life.

“My phone isn’t working.”

“Did you just try to connect to the WiFi?”

“Yeah, and now there’s just a blank screen.”

Julie looked at him like he was an idiot, and Francis’ face flamed with embarrassment. She finished texting, and finally gave him her full attention.

“We still have the landline, and my phone is still working, so I’m leaving for Macon now. I have a friend coming over to see if it can be fixed, so I need you to stick around today, okay?”

“Oh,” Francis choked out, then cleared his throat. “Jules, I wanted to go into town today and get some supplies for the tree house.”

“You mean that ugly thing in the backyard that I’ve begged you to take down for weeks now?”

“George is really excited about it, and I told her we would finish it in time for her birthday party.”

“Look, Frank,” Julie said, and rose from her spot at the island. She walked over to him, getting in his space, and wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling him close to her so he could feel the heat radiating off of her through the thin, tight clothes of her yoga outfit.

After all these years, she was still the same attractive, slender, blonde woman who he knew would be the best person for him to be with, and still the only woman his body reacted to. Francis felt a stirring in his lower depths, and was painfully reminded of how long it had been since he was intimate with his beautiful wife.

Her small hand rubbed circles into his lower back, and she spoke sweetly.

“I really need you to do this for me, okay? You know how important my time is with my friends in Macon, and how much more relaxed I am when I come back. I’ve really missed you the last few weeks, and when I come back I’d love to continue this conversation,” her hand slid down and cupped his ass, and she gave it a small squeeze, “but right now I need to go. You understand, right?”

Francis was trapped, and painfully turned on, so he did the only thing he could do, the only thing he ever did.

He acquiesced.

“Okay.”

Julie raised up on her toes to kiss him, and he lowered his head so she could reach. After a quick peck, she released him, grabbed her purse, and left. Francis realized too late that he never asked when her friend was coming over, he couldn’t text her because his phone wasn’t working, and if he called with the landline then she might get mad and withhold her affection from him. Again. 

It wasn’t the lack of sex that bothered him most, but the lack of physical intimacy. A simple smile or touch was all it took to sustain him, but Julie used his need for human comfort against him. Again, of course, he refused to understand this because it meant threatening the picture of a perfect family that he'd constructed as his willing prison.

A couple hours passed, and he was covered in lawn clippings and sweat, the humidity making his shirt and jeans stick to his body. He rolled the hot mower into the three car garage and made his way to the kitchen for some lemonade. Realizing his mistake when the fridge wouldn’t open (fucking technology, he muttered under his breath), he grabbed a glass from the cupboard and filled it with tap water.

Francis finally caught his breath and looked out of the kitchen window at his perfectly mowed lawn, the sunshine lighting everything up, the forest glowing dark and green, and a small contented smile washed over his face.

Ding dong, the doorbell screamed, startling Francis out of his hard earned euphoria. He gulped down the remains of the glass so as not to waste the clean water, and wiped his hands on his jeans. He clomped down the hallway in his grass stained white tennis shoes, and saw a dark figure standing on the porch through the speckled glass front door, facing away from the door.

He pasted a smile on his face, took a breath, and opened up the door.

“Good morning, I’m Francis. You must be-“

The words caught in his throat as the man with blonde hair, fierce blue eyes, a slim dancer’s build, pale skin, and a smile like the cat that ate the canary turned around. 

“Hi, Frankie,” said Damian Glass.

As one predator leaves, another enters.

Chapter Text

“Glass.” It wasn’t a question, it wasn’t an answer; it was fury.

“Frankie,” Damian mockingly growled back. The smile stretched over Damian’s brilliant white teeth exposed his canines, and he looked every ounce the predator that he was.

Francis’ gaze raked down Damian’s perfect form, taking in the buttery, light grey t-shirt that was made of the same material as the shirt he’d worn when Francis first met him all those weeks ago in his hospital’s lobby, bleeding all over the ugly carpet like a stuck pig. The fabric stretched just tight enough across his broad shoulders and hard chest that it walked the line between angelic and obscene. A large gym bag made of distressed leather that probably cost as much as his monthly mortgage hung strapped across Damian’s body.

Look, but don’t touch. Or else.

Around his narrow waist, light colored khakis snugged close, the kind that stain easily from grease or physical labor. Completing the ensemble was a pair of wine red velvet loafers. 

Francis was a man who worked hard for everything he’d ever had in life; a man who had beaten the odds, despite his rough upbringing. Abusive parents, being tossed around by the foster care system, losing his brother, finally being adopted by the González family. Getting into college on a scholarship, working 40 hours a week in construction with a full course load, then somehow getting into medical school. His high school football days might have been behind him, but his physique was one built by necessity and by the love of moving it in ways that challenged him. He was a hardworking man, and as honest a man as he could be.

Francis stood there in his worn and faded blue jeans, stained with dirt and grass, his dark blue Georgia State shirt wrinkled and sweaty. Damian stood before him as the perfect image of privilege.

Fucking velvet loafers.

“Do not call me that.”

“What would you rather I call you? Daddy?”

The door slammed loudly in Damian’s perfect face, blue eyes quirked up in amusement. Francis could still see him through the door, and anger coursed through his veins, making it hard to breathe.

Anger, and something else.

A gentle knock, then a more urgent one.

“Look, I don’t have all day to-” Francis saw Damian turn from the door, and raise his arm in a wave. “Oh, hi, Mrs. Winshire! It’s such a lovely day today. What am I doing here? Oh I’m just-”

He didn’t get a chance to finish that sentence, because the door popped open and Francis hauled him inside by the back of his elegantly soft shirt, the grey material fisted in a large hand. Francis threw him into the hallway, slammed the door shut, and leaned on it, breathing hard as he tried to center himself.

“I think you’ve rumpled my shirt,” Damian said, and Francis turned his head to look at him, standing there looking unbothered and mildly amused, examining the fabric of his shirt. It had pulled up the bottom slightly, and a flash of pale, toned skin hit Francis like a laserbeam.

“My eyes are up here, doctor.”

Francis’s panicked gaze swept up to Damian’s face, and of course he had a half smile, as he always did. Francis moved away from the door and stood in front of Damian, his feet planted shoulder width apart, his large arms crossed over his chest.

“What the fuck do you want, Glass.” It wasn’t a question, but an accusation. Damian’s eyes flicked down to Francis’ hand.

“No wedding ring I see.”

“I’m in the middle of yard work. Though I do not suspect that you know much about such things,” Francis spat out, his accent thick and heavy.

“No, I don’t suppose you would suspect that I know much about such things at all.”

Francis' face borehis hostility openly.

“Oh, no angry retort? By the way, where are the children? I’ve heard so much about them.”

“You have five seconds to tell me what you want before I bodily throw you from my home.”

“So violent,” Damian tutted.

“One.”

“No games today? Alright. I come in peace anyway. I’m here to fix your wifi.”

It finally dawned on Francis why Damian Glass was in his foyer, smirking and complaining of a rumpled shirt. His stomach churned.

“You’re Julie’s friend.”

“Yes! She wouldn’t happen to be around, would she? She left her mat at yoga last weekend by accident, poor dear.” As if to prove it, Damian pulled the rolled up mat out of his large leather cross-body bag.

“She isn’t here.”

“Oh, really? What a shame,” Damian said, as though it wasn’t really a shame.

Not a shame at all.

Chapter Text

Francis made no move to take the mat.

“Well then, I’ll just…” Damian said, then gingerly set the hot pink thing next to him on the floor. Next from his large leather bag came a laptop and various cords and wires. “See, I really am here to fix your internet. Where do you keep it?”

Francis’ eyes flicked over the evidence of the man who stood in his foyer with seemingly no ill-intent. His jaw set, the muscle there fluttering, and he spoke, turning away: “Follow me.”

And follow, Damian did.

Francis was resigned to the circumstances, resigned as he always was; unhappy, irritated, the taste of ash in his mouth. He led Damian to his office and opened the thick wooden door.

“The router is in here.”

Damian pushed past him, walking with a purpose as he always did, each step taken like it was owed to him. Like he was entitled to it. The smell of him, of cinnamon and heat, filled Francis’ nose, and his pulse quickened.

Shit.

The office was regal, fitting for the large, sprawling manor. Dark wood details, an empty fireplace, a large wooden desk in the middle that must have been built to match the house a very long time ago, bookshelves along one wall filled to bursting, and a large framed photo of George and William playing hung on the empty wall next to the door. It was hung perfectly for Francis to look up at as he worked. Behind the desk, a large wall of windows that looked out at the vast lawn and forest beyond. The beginnings of a wooden structure at the closest tree to the house could also be seen, if only one knew where to look.

Damian strode with purpose towards the ornately carved desk and the Fraggle brand combination computer monitor unit sitting there. Francis watched a he assessed the desk, overflowing with papers, and follow the wires going from the computer to the bookshelves along the closest wall. Damian took a step towards the bookshelf where the router sat.

The same bookshelf with a plain wooden box that matched the shelves and was shoved behind several books high up. Not high enough to be suspicious, but not low enough for any children or wives to easily grab it.

Francis was the only one who used the office. Julie hated it, and did most of her typing and instagram scrolling on a FragPad in the kitchen or in their massive bed. The children knew they weren’t to come in, and most of the time they didn’t want to. Sometimes Francis let George come in and draw on the wooden floor in a coloring book (with washable markers), but she was too old for that now, and generally hated staying in when she could be outside, catching frogs and digging holes with her friends. William sometimes sat silently in the corner reading a children’s encyclopedia, but that was only when Julie encouraged him (made him) spend time with his father.

“Wait-“ Francis said, his hand outstretched.

Damian turned his head over his shoulder and looked at the taller man curiously.

“Yes?”

“Just… be careful. It may look messy, but things are organized just so, and it’ll be hell trying to settle it all if any of the stacks get knocked down.”

“Oh, Doc, I’m always careful,” Damian replied, giving a little wink and a devilish grin. He turned back to the router and set down his large leather bag on the floor. “Now, I have a very serious question for you.” Damian turned off the power switch, waited a few seconds, and flicked it back on. “Have you tried turning it off and on again?”

Francis stood there silently, his arms crossed, his expression tight.

“No, Damian. How smart. I hadn’t thought of that. In addition to being handsome, you're also incredibly intelligent.”

“Enough. Fix it, or leave.”

“So demanding, Doc. I like that.” Damian turned back to the router, watching the green lights pop up and flicker. Seemingly satisfied, he set his laptop on top of the desk next to the Fraggle computer.

“A fan of my company’s products, are we?”

“Julie… was very generous at Christmas this year,” Francis admitted, surprising himself with his candidness.

“Well if you ever need help learning everything it can do. I'm always happy to share company secrets.” Damian said, distracted by his work. He connected his laptop directly to the router and moved aside a wireless keyboard. Francis finally walked into the room, leaving the large wooden office door open, and circled the desk to see what Damian was doing.

“Oh.”

“Yeeeess?” Damian asked, the word elongated into a question. A blue screen with white words and numbers that Francis didn’t understand zipped across the screen, and Damian’s long, graceful fingers moved soundlessly over his laptop.

“You don’t support your company’s products, Glass?”

He was referring, of course, to Damian's unbranded laptop.

“Fraggle collects data from over one billion devices. I don’t see why they should have mine as well.”

Francis chuckled at that.

“Don’t trust Big Brother?”

Damian’s fingers jerked so slightly that if the good doctor hadn’t been standing right behind him, breathing in his air, watching his hands dance over the keys, it would have gone unnoticed.

As it was, Francis stood there looking over Damian’s shoulder, intoxicated by the fine fire of him, drawn to him, lost in the ache of being near him.

So lost, in fact, that he jumped when Damian spoke.

“That was funny. You’re funny, Doc,” the pale man chuckled, rolling his shoulders slightly and rubbing the back of his neck.

Francis cleared his throat and leaned back, tearing from Damian’s gravitational pull.

“You’re the first of my patients to think so.”

“Really? What a shame. And I’m not your patient anymore, Doc.”

“Of course. You know, why don’t I- would you like something to drink? How… rude of me to not ask before. I can’t offer you much besides water since the fridge won't open, blasted technology, but the tap is clear and cold.”

“I’d… really like that,” Damian responded, sincerity ringing in the quiet timber of his voice.

Francis left the room and pretended like he hadn’t noticed how the tips of Damian’s perfect ears pinked at his words.

To the kitchen. Two glasses. Tap water. What am I doing? Walk back to the office. Through the open door. 

No.

The glasses shattered on the hardwood floor as Dr. Francis Moore looked on and saw his ex-patient, Damian Glass, standing next to his desk where the plain wooden box sat open.

The box that no one was supposed to see, ever.

Damian gripped the edge of the desk so tightly that his already pale hand turned white. The other hand rubbed the soft, soiled red fabric in one hand, his eyes refusing to leave it.

No.

It was the shirt he’d worn when Francis first met him.

I can’t…

Damian whispered: “I saw you, you know. I saw you, touching yourself, and I wanted…”

He still wasn’t looking at Francis.

This isn’t real. This can’t be happening. I have to-

“Come here, Frankie.”

Chapter Text

“Come here, Frankie,” came the whisper, commanding over the ringing silence between shattering glasses and the present.

Something was crunching somewhere far away. That was the first thing Francis noticed. The second thing was the way the hardwood floor felt under it feet. It was different, the pressure wrong, the ground shifting. The third thing he realized was that Damian was getting closer to him.

No, that’s not right.

No, that wasn’t right. Damian wasn’t getting closer, Francis was.

Stop. Don’t do this.

And yet he was doing it, putting one foot in front of the other, unable to stop, compelled through something that if he put a name to, he would lose his sanity.

I’ve lost my mind. I’m not doing this. This isn’t me.

Damian still wasn’t looking at him. The closer Francis got, he could see the red flush over Damian’s soft, unmarked face.

He’s beautiful. What am I doing?

Another step, another crunch of glass under his feet, another inch closer to oblivion. It was dangerous, what he was doing. But he couldn’t stop. He could never stop, not when it came to the man in front of him.

But he didn’t know that yet.

Chapter Text

And there I was, invited into his home, standing in the entryway, teasing him and watching him hate me. It was all so delicious. I glowed under his attention, for even harsh words directed at a ghost are better than no words at all.

It was so easy, as it always is. People really ought to be more concerned with their digital privacy. Finding where Julie goes to yoga, who she spends her time with after, befriending her with charm and deception. Almost too easy, truthfully. And the other things she and I did… Let’s just say that I’m feeling pretty good about my chances with Frankie. Oh, sorry, Francis.

Hard eye roll. Gross.

Anyway, slipping my homebrew into their wireless network was ridiculously simple, and I’ve been so accommodating to Julie in the past, that of course I would be the first person she’d ask for help: the handsome computer guru, the Fraggle executive with an inviting smile and impeccable taste. Someone for her to giggle over with her girlfriends. And with her personality? Sending me to meet with her doting husband knowing what she and I have done together? I may have done questionable things in the name of love, but at least I’m not downright evil. 

I can’t wait until all of this is resolved and she’s finally out of the picture. But enough about the future.

Francis opened the door looking like something I wanted to devour. He must really not understand how delectable he is. The outdated college shirt pulled taut over his broad chest, the sweat glistening on his forehead and arms, the well-worn jeans snug over narrow hips, thicker and softer than they’d been twenty years ago,  but still perfect for holding onto as they fuck hot and hard.

And how he denied me? He’s too precious, too adorable. My name is Doctor Francis Moore and I have a massive stick up my ass all the time. God, I love him. 

Though, God doesn’t have much to do with all this, hmm?

And finally he led me to his office. Totally overplayed his hand though, didn’t he, when he stopped me from getting too close to the bookshelf where the router sat. He really has gone soft, so used to hiding his demons instead of living with them.

Hell may be hot but at least it keeps you warm at night.

Does Julie keep you warm at night, Frankie? I don’t think you can give her what she really wants, but that’s okay. You’re too gentle for her, too lacking passion, she says. She blames you, says you’re too boring, too worn out. Thirty eight years on this earth and already an old man. But we both know that’s not the heart of the matter, don’t we? 

I’m always getting ahead of myself. Pardon my impatience. When you’re so close to everything you’ve always wanted, it’s hard to slow down. Put the brakes on. When you’re in my space and standing over me as I’m typing the conclusion to a program on my laptop that has been written a thousand times, when I can feel your heat and smell you, feel you filling my lungs with your musk, a scent I’ve remembered over and over again, touching myself and thinking of you, fucking Julie and thinking of you, fucking men who look exactly like you but aren’t ever you.

No one else does this to me.

You’re so lucky that you have me. You just don’t know it yet. 

So adorable I can hardly stand it. I just remembered that I am Georgian, bred and born, and my adoptive southern parents would faint if they knew I had not offered my guest a glass of something cold and refreshing. Haha, alright Frankie. You do you. Bring me that glass of tepid tap water. I’d drink anything you gave me, even if there was a skull and crossbones on the bottle.

Finally you leave the room. I take a moment to clear my head of your essence, and inspect the bookshelf. A wall of shelves overflowing with medical journals, dictionaries, encyclopedias, even some comics. Oh, but here, if I stand back at just this angle, I can see…

I’m pulling the plain wooden box down, opening it, and I’m smiling even though I can’t breathe. My shirt, the one he’d cut off at the hospital, tucked here, crusted over with blood and something… decidedly not blood. Something dried white on the dark red shirt. Some things, multiple stains, one not all the way dried.

I touch the moisture there with a finger and bring it to my lips. 

It’s all the encouragement I need to keep going, to keep pushing my plan, to keep pursuing him. I’m setting the shirt back in the wooden box, no need to push him too hard today, I just want to get him used to my presence, receptive to my personality, accepting of everything I am, but when I put the shirt back a little too firmly, the bottom of the box shifts.

Now that’s interesting.

I lift up the false bottom, and my heart drops out of my stomach. It’s a stack of court papers, crinkled and yellowed, stained. Of course, I read it, flipping forward, knowing Frankie could be back at any moment, but needing to understand what this is.

...Francis Moore groomed his younger brother, and sexually assaulted him on the night of October 23rd, 1996. Alexander Moore is a deeply confused boy who was manipulated by his older brother. For his safety, he is not to be contacted by Francis, and he is not to contact Francis. If either of them are caught with each other, or attempting to make contact with each other, Francis Moore will be tried as an adult for rape of a minor. This is for Alexander’s protection, and to give Francis a chance at a better future... 

Oh.

I swallow around the rock lodged in my throat. I need to compose myself. He’s going to be back any second and I don’t know what I’m going to do when I see him.

My hands shake as I place the papers back into their coffin, setting the false bottom back into the box. I’m standing there, the red shirt in my hand, trying to use it and use how I know he feels about me to ground myself in something real.

Glass shatters, and I don’t look up.

I can’t look up.

Chapter Text

“I saw you, you know. I saw you, touching yourself, and I wanted…”

I’m still not looking at him. I have wanted so many things in this life, yet they all boil down to one: Francis No-middle-name Moore.

This isn’t real. This can’t be happening. Everything I’ve wanted...

“Come here, Frankie.”

I’ve been so patient, I’ve waited and plotted and I would never blame him, I would never say that he is the reason that I am the way I am, but damn if he doesn’t make it hard. 

He’s walking towards me, and I’m standing here, and this is all out of order, but I need this. I need one taste, one sip of his soul, and I will be able to hold myself back as long as it takes.

Finally he reaches me, but he doesn’t reach out, a distance that feels like something between an inch and a lifetime. I feel the weight of his eyes on me but I can’t return it, keeping my eyes firmly down. What if the weight of my stare wakes him up? Makes him remember that he shouldn’t be doing this? Has a crisis of conscience? No, thank you. I need this.

Francis stood silently, looking down at the man in front of him, a man holding a soiled red shirt, a man who refused to look up at him. Full lips in a tan face opened and closed, wanting to say something, but terrified of what would happen if any words were uttered.

I’ll take what I can get.

The shock of hitting the hardwood floor snakes up my knees and through my hips. I’m kneeling here before him, the red shirt discarded next to me, and finally my head is quiet. All I am is intent and purpose. 

I softly reach a hand out, expecting him to bat it away, but he doesn’t. He’s silent, standing there, looking down at me. Frankie doesn’t understand the power he has over me, the things I’d do for him if he only just uttered the words.

The faded fabric at the front of his jeans is more worn than I expected, the result of time and use. Under my hand, I can feel him, and where his jeans are soft, he is most definitely not. Pride trills through my chest bright and vibrant. I did this. I do this to him.

All his bluster is pretense. I know what he really wants.

I want to touch him more, to rub myself against his legs, mark him with my scent, hold him tight to me, but I can’t give him a chance to question this, to stop me from giving him what he wants, what I need. He’s always stopping himself, and that’s the most frustrating part of loving him.

Just take what you want, dammit!

But he won’t, of course. So I have to take it for him.

His hands hung limp by his sides as the shorter, kneeling man in front of him rubbed one hand firmly against the front of his jeans. Francis, once terrified at his demented secret, the shirt cut off of his patient found by said patient used and covered in his release, now found himself hardening at the image of the man kneeling before him. Fear, guilt, and desire were three things Damian Glass always aroused in him. Francis didn’t know where one ended and the others began, and he closed his eyes against the question.

A firm squeeze pressed a groan from his lips, almost a word, and the sound of a zipper echoed in the large office. Firm hands yanked down his pants and white briefs to mid-thigh, and his hardening length was exposed at last. 

Still he didn’t open his eyes, even as a gentle finger traced the curved line of him from base to tip, swirling in the fluids there. The finger disappeared, and the kneeling man hummed around as a sucking sound reached Francis’ ears. His eyes opened in time to see the wet digit pulled from between pink lips, a single line of saliva connecting them..

Finally, because I can take it no longer, I look up at him, and there he still stands across the room from me on broken glass and looking so handsome that I’d kill for a single kiss. It wasn't real, but it will be soon if I have any say in things.

And I always get what I want.

Chapter Text

He finally walks to me across that fucking floor, and I look up at him, and he looks down at me, and we don’t say anything, but I know. His thumb ghosts over my bottom lip, and by the time he kisses me, I know that he accepts this, that he accepts us. Across lifetimes, we’re finally together the way we should be. 

He kisses me, and his lips are soft and cold and dry but they match mine, and finally the world makes sense.

I look up, and there he still stands across the room from me, and I am in hell.

Chapter Text

Francis wasn’t there in that moment. He wasn’t there with Damian, frozen with shame and terror and desire. His body stood just inside the doorway on broken glass, but his mind was elsewhere. 

His mind was twenty-two years in the past, in a home he hadn’t lived in for long, with a new set of parents who weren’t as good as they could have been, but not as bad as the others were. With a brother who was alive and so strange but so lovely; pink skin and wavy, light brown hair that glittered golden in the sunlight, hazel eyes always calculating, only softening when looking at Francis; quiet and cold to everyone except him. A brother who never missed his football games, but refused to spend time with Francis’ friends. All they had was each other in a world that had thrown them away, and that was enough.

Until it wasn’t.

Midnight. A kitchen far removed from the present, illuminated by the single lit bulb from an old refrigerator, door open and cold air seeping out, showing the hungry teenage football star that he had two choices: old hard cheese, or leftover tuna casserole. His dark eyes flicked back and forth, weighing the options, and his naked chest peaked in the chill. He was too warm most of the time, and always slept in only his boxers. He’d thrown on old grey sweatpants from one of their previous high schools before coming down for a snack, just in case he ran into someone, but his torso was bare. He was not a self-conscious sixteen-year-old, at least not about his body. 

So caught up in his meager options was he, that Francis jumped when a cupboard closed behind him. 

“Thank God it’s you,” he breathed out in relief after turning to look at his younger brother.

“God, indeed,” his brother snickered, and filled the glass in his hand with water from the tap. Francis looked back into the open fridge, then snapped back unbidden to his brother.

 Alex, his older brother had assumed, was self-conscious of most things, including his body. He always hid it from view under baggy clothing, usually dark, hiding in the shadows, and even when swimming wore a loose white shirt over himself that he must not have realized became see-through when wet.

Francis certainly realized. And Francis also realized that his fourteen-year-old brother stood leaning back against the far counter, drinking steadily from a clear cup, and followed with his dark eyes a single drop of water that escaped his lips and traveled down, down, down his long, pale neck, over his prominent collarbones, and over his exposed chest, for his brother wore no shirt this night.

An audible gulp echoed in the quiet kitchen, and Francis concluded by process of elimination that it had come from his own throat. He tore his eyes from his younger brother, but the image was burned in them: tousled wavy hair, pale, pink skin, a swallowing throat, a frailness and masculinity to his form that was as delicate and beautiful as cut crystal. And, of course, wide hazel eyes that saw him, and always saw through him somehow.

A blush burned across his tan cheeks, and he prayed that the cold air from the fridge would still the quickening in his veins. Blood rushed in his ears, and the buzz of the fridge was drowned out by the thumping of his heart.

“Frankie…”

His breath caught in his throat, and he looked over his shoulder. Alex still leaned against the counter, the cup abandoned next to him, and a small hand stretched out to Francis.

“Come here, Frankie.” 

Anger. Yes, that emotion he knew, that emotion he could count on.

“Get the fuck out of my house, Glass.”

“But I-”

“Get out now or I’ll throw you out, you sick fuck.”

“I hardly think that’s-”

Francis took a step towards the slight man holding the soiled cloth, his hands clenched into fists, his brow crushed together, the rage evident in every crease of his skin. 

He almost looks like he’s going to cry.

The doctor squashed that thought down, pressed the emotions as tightly together as he could into a ball he could ignite and throw like a Molotov cocktail at the wretched creature before him.

Damian shut his mouth and it made a tight line despite the fullness of his lips. He let go of the cloth, slammed shut the wooden box, and shoved his laptop and wires into the bag lying crumpled on the floor. Francis didn’t move as Damian walked towards the door, and as his shoulder brushed against the taller man, Francis’ hand shot out and grabbed the sinew there.

“If you tell anyone-” he started.

Bright, sparkling blue eyes met his dark ones, and a cruel smile opened over perfect teeth.

“Tell Julie I said ‘hi’,” Damian sneered, and yanked himself from Francis’ grasp.

The front door slammed behind him.

Chapter Text

I can’t... how fucking dare he. How dare he use the words Alex used, how dare he call me by Alex’s name for me, how dare he breathe in the same space as Alex’s memory. Who does he think he is?

I was only Frankie for one person, and that name is as dead as he is.

I shouldn’t have kept the shirt at all, but especially not with my only connection to Alex.

Alex.

I don’t think of you often, because I can’t bear it. I know you never believed in God, but I pray to Him about you. I pray to Him that He let you into heaven because though you were an unbeliever, you deserve heaven more than most. You never had a chance at a real life, a full life, a future with a wife and kids and dreams outside of surviving another day. I know you said you never wanted any of that, but you would’ve changed your mind when you got older. 

If you’d been allowed to get older.

I love you, and I’m sorry. If I hadn’t… if I’d been stronger, we wouldn’t have been separated, and I could’ve been there for you. You never would have been driving so recklessly. I would have been able to look out for you, to tell you to slow down, to be careful. You were always rocketing past me, did better than me in school, and you would have been incredible out in the real world.

I would take it back. I wish I could take it back. My selfishness knows no bounds, and I’ve spent the rest of my life trying to make up for it. 

I take a deep breath.

I can’t stand to be in this fucking room anymore, smelling his stench in the air. Cinnamon and heat and something that makes me turn my nose up, that brings me back to you, and that’s despicable. 

How dare he.

I’m angry, angrier than I’ve been in a long time. Fists clenched, shaking, shoulders tight. Rage is dangerous, desire is dangerous, and Damian Glass brings these things out in me. I feel unhinged, and I hate him for that. When I loosen the tether on my emotions, bad things happen, and people get hurt. People I love. 

Alex.

You’re in my head and in my heart and I can feel you with me now, I can feel your spirit twining around me, and I can’t think like this. I can’t live like this.

Feet crunch on broken shards as I leave my office and head to the kitchen. 

I had everything I wanted for fifteen seconds, and it ruined my life and killed the person I love most in this world.

I’m reaching for the whiskey on the top shelf that no one, especially Julie, knows about. It’s cheap, so she wouldn’t like it anyway. It’s the same shit our daddy drank, and if Alex saw me now, he’d say to put it back, probably. Or to pour one for him, too. 

He would be 36 this year. I wonder what he’d look like. Still too slender in a way that he was insecure about? He was always hiding himself, and I know I caught him staring at my body a few times. I was broad everywhere that he was thin, and I told him he’d grow bigger just like I had, but he’d just smile that small, all-seeing smile and shake his head.

I miss you every day that I remember you.

I’m emptying my second glass of the brown liquid by the time the first one hits me.

Chapter Text

It’s Monday morning, I’m awake, and I shouldn’t be. My alarm hasn’t gone off yet, it’s pitch black outside, and I’m… well, I wouldn’t call it ruminating, but its not happy fun brain imagination time.

Which sucks. 

He’d thrown me out like trash, and that rankles because I was such a fucking fool to allow myself to hope that things could be easy between us, even for a second. As caught off guard by the shirt as I already was, and then the secret stack of papers that showed me… what? What did it say about him? And what did it say about me that those pages excited something in me? That my love for him is deeper than before, burns more brightly?

If I had a therapist, she might have something to say about it. 

Enough of this. I swim through silk sheets and pull my heavy body free. My shoulders sore and tense, and I definitely slept on my neck wrong because it hurts when I bend it like-

Ow. Jesus fucking Christ.

Time to get clean. As clean as someone like me can get, anyway. 

Wow, I’m really leaning heavily into ennui this morning, aren’t I?

Looking in the bathroom mirror before my shower, feeling my jaw, I feel the sharp angles, the strong shapes, the soft skin, but I also feel thin stubble growing in, can see darkness under my eyes from another sleepless night, and lines beginning to crack around my mouth. Can’t outrun Mother Time forever, that bitch. And I can’t outrun genetics, but I can sure as hell hold them off for another year. That should be enough time to do what needs to be done.

Into the shower now, careful not to bend my left arm too much. It’s mostly healed, but the skin stretches in an uncomfortable warning pain when I try to reach around myself, and for the first time, I wonder if it was worth it. Washing my hair is also mildly challenging, so I favor my right hand, aka my dumb hand. I press my forehead to the cool, white tile wall, and encourage it to calm my building headache.

Out of the shower now, shaving any stray hairs that escaped the lasers, and then come the moisturizers and creams, under eye concealer, light foundation, just enough to smooth things out, contacts, then my hair, fuck, what am I even going to do with it?

I never suppress my eye rolls, and I’m not suppressing this one.

Fuck, I’m tired. 

Alright, Damian, we’ve got this. 

I switch into autopilot mode, and before I know it, I’m leaving my monochromatic apartment, travel coffee mug in one hand, messenger bag in the other. As the elevator doors snick shut and I’m confronted with my reflection, seeing what other people must see, I have to admit that I look good. Young, vibrant, self-possessed, and of course, handsome. 

It’s my expression, though, that tops the whole thing off. Confident blue eyes shine out, lack of sleep and uncharacteristic sliver of self doubt hidden away. No matter how I’m feeling, I can always trust my expression to be unwavering, intimidating, and absolute. Thank god.

Fucking fuck, I need to stop thank god this, and sure as hell that. What am I, some kind of Baptist hick? These people, this place must be rubbing off on me, and not in a fun way that makes a mess after. Disgusting. 

Out of the elevator now, into the parking garage below the building, and there’s my rented baby: gorgeous and sleek and black. Getting Fraggle to pay for it had been… impossible, to put it lightly. So out of my own pocket came the money for this gorgeous machine. Which was fine. I certainly make enough money at that hell--- that company. And I’ll have even more very soon.

Anyway.

It’s dark out still, the sunrise a ways off, and the thirty minute drive from Macon to Nowhere is dull. I only see a couple of other cars on the road, and I am glad to be so alone. Relieved, really. But in my tiredness, ghosts from the past slip through my defenses, and the silence is no longer comforting. Loneliness calls to me from the depths. 

I take a long drink of coffee.

I’m so fucking tired.

Chapter Text

Light crests the top of the dense Georgian forest off in the distance as I arrive at the office. 

Well, office is a strong word. It's the only warehouse in town, abandoned back in the eighties or something when industry died and jobs were shipped overseas. The outside has rusted to this gorgeous-disgusting green copper patina, and it shines like a beacon in the sunrise. 

The majority of the warehouse space is used for storing equipment that isn't under the purview of the general contractor. Big machines that beep and spit out data, other machines for grinding, others for electrographic manipulation. There's a testing room for analyzing the conductivity of different fibers, there's a manufacturing room where we make the fibers we test, and then? 

Then there's the computer room that I've lovingly called the WoMB (the Wonderful Machine that Beeps). Monitor screens wrap around every wall, and long tables bisect the room. Designated computers line the tables, the computer/monitor hybrids with lights blinking on the front. One wall is designated to what I've named MOther (Machine by any Other name). That's where all the data we gather, data on light speed, conductivity, soil types and depths, vegetation type, water content, topographic information, historical flood data, consumer use reports, and so many more things that I'm getting really tired of listing, so we'll move on. 

Darcy has threatened to human resources over my nicknames several times, and she’s removed every plaque I've put on the wall outside proclaiming, Beware MOther's WoMB. How is anyone supposed to know they shouldn't go in here with the billion dollar number cruncher if I don't have an engaging, mildly (wildly) inappropriate sign?

But it's fine. I've got plenty more in the trunk of my car. Outsourcing was bad for a small town like Nowhere, but great for the business of buying tacky, personalized plaques in bulk. 

If Ms. C'Agne's such a pain in my ass, why not fire her, you ask? It's simple. Step one: Unstoppable force meets immovable object. Step two: Unstoppable force gets immovable object hired for a super secret advanced tech project at the biggest company in America. Step three: Prosper. 

She's damn good at her job, and she's almost as invaluable as I am to the entire project. Plus, her involvement means I can… lean back a little. Push some of the heavy lifting onto her shoulders. Have more time for… personal projects .

The heavy security door beeps at me to know it’s ready for me to enter. I do so, graciously, and my half-bow to the door is interrupted by… Darcy’s laughter? I’ve never heard her laugh before, at least not like that. Surprisingly, Darcy is here before me. Even more surprisingly, I hear someone else, too.

Higher, harsher, that's Darcy. What's she doing here so early? The other is deeper and more feminine, a gentle growl more than a voice, and I'm mildly turned on and more than mildly curious. 

"Who are you talking to, Darcy Darling?" I sneak up, grabbing her shoulders. She jumps a foot in the air and slams the laptop closed, but not before I get a good look at a very pretty face indeed. "Who was that? A new girlfriend, perhaps?"

Darcy stands up, fists clenched. 

"What the fuck, asshole? You scared me half to death." She takes a breath, and a moment later the shock slides from her face. Dark hands smooth black, fashionable fabric. "And what are you wearing? And why are you here so early? You're usually-"

"Perfectly on time as I always am, you're right," I interrupt her. There's a reason why I don't use Fraggle brand or corporate issued tech. Their employee monitoring is just short of unconstitutional, and I’d like my secrets to be kept… secret. "So who is she? Anyone I might know?" 

I sip my coffee and flash a maniacal grin that doesn't reach my eyes. I think she finds it endearing, because she doesn’t complain further.

“You’re looking especially pale and bougie today,” she says.

“Why, thank you, Darcy,” I say as she walks over to MOther, presumably for data analysis. “I thought maybe a dark grey jacket with dark fitted pants and a deep green buttery tee would be a bit too much, but overall I think the effect is-”

“Haunting. You look haunted.”

“Well, that’s not very nice.” 

She’s not looking at me, but I don’t like this intuitive streak of hers. Something for future consideration. I can’t have her ruining my plans, wouldn't want get getting caught up in them anyway, and I’m not convinced that she’s the kind of person who can be bribed, and my half-hearted flirtations don’t work on her. I’m lucky she’s only into women, honestly. Working with people who find me attractive can be exhausting.

And I’m already so tired.

Outside the locked lab, machinery grinds and I can imagine the heavy garage doors lifting. Workers will start shuffling in for another long, well-paid day of digging and sampling and vital labor that I am very glad to not perform.

Anyway. My phone vibrates in the pocket of my chinos, and upon further investigation, it’s Julie. Hmm. Sweet, gullible Julie. I wonder if she got a thrill from secretly cuckolding her poor husband. She treats him so badly, and that’s what I appreciate about her. The easier to take him from you.  

Ah, I see. Apparently there’s a church potluck fundraiser this coming Sunday. How quaint.

And I’m invited? She says to bring something for everyone to enjoy, and I see she’s included something for me to enjoy. I quickly close the text app so Darcy can’t see Julie’s two bountiful gifts. 

The greatest gift of all is that this particular scheme is almost completed, and it’s thrilling because I truly have no idea what Frankie will do afterwards.

I mean, I have hopes. Desires, intentions, et cetera. Don’t get me wrong, there’s a conclusion I’m racing towards and I am struggling to stay the course and take things at a slow pace, but it will all be worth it.

Fucking Julie is indirectly fucking Frankie and that’s the only way I can stay hard when I’m inside of her. She’s helping me destroy her marriage and that is a beautiful, beautiful thing.

Bless me Father, for sinning keeps me sane, and my insanity is killing me. Would you deny me my salvation?

Chapter Text

When Julie came home that Sunday, after the kids were dropped off by Mrs. and Mr. González, (people didn’t know Francis was adopted unless he or someone else said something; his medium complexion and dark, wavy hair were so similar to his adopted parents’ that a familial connection by blood was assumed, despite Francis’ height) she reminded her doting husband (who was miserably hungover and had thus, along with the children, missed morning service) of the upcoming church potluck on Sunday after service. 

Darkness fell, finding Francis seated at the breakfast island in his massive chrome kitchen holding a short glass of brown, cheap liquid close to his chest while his wife opened and closed cabinets too loudly. The children had required extra bedtime stories to go to sleep that night, and though their bedrooms were far from the kitchen, Francis worried because sound carried easily in the large, cold house. He sat there, long limbs tucked under the seat and folded into himself, eyes red and hair sticking up in dark tufts around his head. Julie, as always, looked a picture of angelic perfection.

“Everyone loves my buffalo chicken dip, so we’ll need enough tortilla chips,” she planned aloud as she rooted around in the fridge that blinked and blonked happily, little tones chiming as its door shut.

“Jules, how do you know-” he started, and she interrupted, as she always did.

“I’m so glad that Damian was able to come over last weekend and fix whatever was wrong with the wifi or internet or whatever,” and Francis can hear the smile in her voice, and he is so tired and he wants to ask the real question but he also doesn’t want the answer. He wants to live in the space where Damian Glass is not part of his life; where this confusing, intoxicating man did not enter.

Don’t start thinking about entrances.

“He-”

“You know, he is such a funny guy, a real charmer. Did you guys get along? I hope you did. You know, you could be friendlier to people, Frank.” And then she came over, placed a small hand over the single large one laying impotent on the counter, and smiled up at him. For the first time, he noticed that her smile didn't seem genuine, and had a troubling realization. 

She doesn't like me. 

The thought shocked him. He always held such a tight hold of his impulses and thoughts, but for some reason, that restraint was slipping, and honesty bled through. 

“Your yoga mat-”

“Oh!” at that her face brightened, but her smile didn’t climb all the way up and instead reminded him of a wet dishtowel dropped on the counter. “I must’ve forgotten it at class. It was so thoughtful of Damian to bring it when he came over. I already told you how we met at Helen’s studio in Macon, right? I’m sure I must’ve.”

Francis looked down at his wife's small hand on top of his, and realized he couldn't remember the last time that they'd made love, the last time she had touched him without trying to get something else out of it. 

“I don’t remember you saying anything about that.”

“Well, Frank, you’ve been working really hard lately,” she said, and her soft hand reached up to cup his pink cheek, whiskey ruddying the tan skin under his stubble. It stung his face like wind on an overcast day. 

She smiled at him and it reminded him of the first time their eyes met across the quad at Georgia State, and for a moment he thought was wrong about all of it, that nothing was different, that she just wanted what was best for him. She always had been able to see things he hadn’t. 

Julie tugged gently on one of his haphazard curls and opened her mouth to say something, but just then her phone jingled an unfamiliar ringtone, and his hope and nostalgia cracked and peeled away until all that was left was the numbness from the alcohol and the deep pit inside of him that told him something was wrong. A name tickled the back of his mind, but he pushed it away.

Stop it.

She turned away but he still caught her sideways smile, the corner of her cheek peeking around the curve of her face, something he knew well after their countless years of marriage.

She’s hiding something.

Julie walked out, and Francis was once again alone. Horridly, achingly alone.

Chapter Text

“We missed you at service last weekend,” Pastor Gabrielle intoned in that deep, quiet-loud voice of hers. Francis was trapped, his hand caught in hers. 

“Pastor,” Julie nodded, her smile wide and a high pink color in her cheeks that Francis couldn’t differentiate between the rouge she usually wore and a reflection of true emotion. There were a lot of things he couldn’t tell about Julie these days.

Pastor Gabrielle McCullough stood below Francis’ height but well-above many of her flock. She had broad shoulders, cropped red hair, and an unwavering, full smile. Francis’ own strength was diminished in the power of her pale, scarred hands, and he choked down his panic.

“Yes, I uh, wasn’t feeling well,” Francis answered, which was the truth; in fact, he hadn’t been able to shake the residual nausea and was determined not to imbibe today.

“I’ve heard that you haven't been ‘feeling well’ a lot lately,” she said looking to Julie, and Francis noted the way Gabrielle’s pink, freckled skin clashed with the green of her ornate robes.

Like rotten fruit.

 It unsettled him, and of course he then felt guilty for the mental disrespect.

She is a shepherd of God, he thought, but it didn’t calm him the way it used to; few things calmed him these days; few things that weren’t brown and liquid or shoved into boxes on high shelves.

“I’m here if you want to talk about it,” Pastor Gabrielle said, and Francis smiled at her in a way that he hoped seemed genuine. Where before her concern would be welcome, and her holy confidence appreciated, the things he couldn’t admit to were piling up and he trusted himself less and less to not shout out loud the things that kept him up at night.

I loved him-

Stop it!

Julie stepped in to smooth the silence that had fallen over their little group.

“Thank you so much Pastor,” she said, and reached out a small hand to the green-clad arm holding her husband hostage.

“Of course,” the Pastor responded under the soft caress, her smile still wide, but the edges starting the slightest of descents downwards.

“Yes, thank you Pastor,” Francis finally said, his drawl thick with nerves. He shook his captive hand up and down, forcing the Pastor into a corner, forcing her to play along, to shake his hand and release him. 

Sometimes, rules of social etiquette could be taken advantage of to escape difficult situations.

Julie hung on his arm as they walked to the potluck reception, and without anything to calm his mind, all Francis could think of was the picture they must paint to everyone else. Julie had picked out his clothes, as she always did when they were attending an event that mattered to her position in the social strata. He wore a white, long-sleeved button-down tucked into black slacks held up with a black belt, and finished with black loafers. His dark curly hair was brushed back smooth and held in place with fiber paste, wavy ends curled up under the backs of his ears. When he was getting dressed that morning, Julie had clucked at him and reminded him to wear sunscreen when he does yard work; she said that he was getting too dark. 

She says the same thing about William, doesn’t she? Applying sunscreen constantly to his naturally tan skin before he goes outside. What does she think will happen, that he’ll become paler somehow?

Julie next to him was a picture of beauty, a princess removed from a storybook. She wore a baby-blue sun dress that exposed her delicate collarbones and kissed the tops of her knees, with a white knit cardigan on top. She stood on pale pink high heels that made Francis’ ankles hurt just looking at them. Julie’s long blonde hair was expertly coiled and piled on top of her head, a few intentional ringlets tracing the curve of her face and her long, slender neck. 

Francis couldn’t remember the last time Julie had worn this dress as she had complained after the purchase that it was inappropriate for most of the functions she went to, that it was too short and too exposed up top; Francis wondered what had suddenly changed to make it appropriate for a church potluck.

As the handsome pair walked over to the covered tables laid out and heavy with food, they were stopped several times by former patients and family members of patients. They all brought Francis into big hugs and firm handshakes, and he felt his place in his community strengthen, felt himself grounded in the life he’d made, in the people who appreciated him, in the people he’d helped. The physical touch was uncomfortable but welcome, and already today he’d received more contact than he’d had in weeks.

It reminded him of a hand wrapped around the back of his knee, of an offer he had rejected, and continued to reject. Of a lilting, playful voice that belonged to someone else, that had taken up residence in a small corner of his mind.

Take what you want, Frankie.

Are you happy?

They finally reached the spot in the rows of food-laden tables where Julie’s ‘famous’ buffalo chicken dip was supposed to be bubbling away cheerily, ready to be scooped out onto plates and devoured with the five large bags of tortilla chips she’d brought.

Instead, they were confronted with a cold crock pot full of a coagulated, orange mess.

“Shit ,” Julie said, and moved around the table to check on the power strip where the machine should’ve been plugged in. She gave away nothing in her body about how tense she was, but Francis knew she was deeply upset. “Someone unplugged it.”

“Maybe you just forgot to plug it in?” Francis supplied unhelpfully.

Julie looked up at him, her pale blue eyes crystal clear and full of rage.

Fuck.

“Maybe-”

“I bet Karen did this. She KNOWS that I’m trying to get on the rotary board.”

Who did she dress for today?

“Where are the kids, Jules?” he asked, watching the other women and a couple of men uncover their trays and crock pots and boxes of various foods on the folding tables set up under the outside hall under the peeling white paint of the worn down awning.

The pastor’ll want donations to fix that this year.

“I don’t know, Frank,” and the way she said his name made him wince. She plugged in the crock pot and used a long spoon to stir the thick, mucous mixture. The shlick-schlack sound of it turned Francis’ stomach, and he looked away from the hypnotizing horror to find his children.

There was George running around with other kids her age on the lawn, her white dress already grass-stained, her loose, golden-brown waves flowing in the wind. She looked happy, and his heart hurt with love. Then there was the little pristine blonde head of William, coloring with a couple little girls in the corner under the awning, his white three piece suit in stark contrast to the ordinary but well-cared for clothes of the people around him.

I told Julie that he’d stand out if he wore that .

Francis looked again to his perfectly made-up wife and caught glimpses of her blue eyes, pale and limp and empty, as she finished setting up the table. He remembered darker blue eyes; brilliant blue eyes with power and intelligence and wit swimming in their depths; eyes that drew him in and hurt him and made him want things he hadn’t allowed himself to want for twenty-two years.

The eyes were so bright in his mind that it was as if they floated in front of him, as if he could conjure them through the power of his desire alone.

Until he realized that, in fact, he was seeing them. And they were seeing him.

When he realized, in fact, that Damian was staring at him.

And, in fact, that Damian looked hot as hell.

Chapter Text

Francis saw him standing there, a deadly angelic vision wrapped in a fitted, goldenrod long-sleeved shirt that suited his coloring perfectly and were complimented by a pair of dark grey pants, and he couldn’t help the way his hungry eyes raked across Damian’s body, feasting on the tight material wrapped around his narrow hips, devouring the way the sleeves of his shirt were pushed up his forearms and accentuated the corded muscle there, and drinking down deeply the long, pale neck that just begged to be touched, to be bitten. 

The chattering around him slowly filled his ears and he remembered himself, remembered where he was and what he was doing. First, of course, shame came racing in the door left open by his vulnerability, and so the next inevitable feeling was rage.

His eyes narrowed as Damian smirked, having seen all of this, seen Francis and his treacherous eyes roamed and wandered, and focused his attention back on whoever he was talking with. Rage now, again, for being ignored. Shame for feeling rage at being ignored. Embarrassment and rage and shame battled in Francis’ chest. He saw then that Damian was speaking with Maureen who was with her very old, perpetually sick mother; platinum blonde Maureen who was so thin and always in everyone’s business. 

And now she was giggling?

Is he… is he flirting with her?

“What is he doin’ here?” Francis’ voice was hollow, his drawl thick, and Julie’s cool hand wrapped around his fist. 

How dare he-

“Who, honey?” She smiled, but annoyance creased her eyes at the edges.

“Glass,” he spit out.

“Oh, Damian’s here? I was hoping he’d make it!” her cheer was a little too thick, and Francis could taste the insincerity, but he pushed it aside. She rubbed his hand too firmly, almost enough to hurt, but he’d never admit that. “He told me that you two didn’t exactly… get along when he came over last weekend, but I swear to- I swear,” and then she leaned in, “you better not cause a scene. This event is really important to me,” she whispered in his ear, and her angry tone made her sweet face that much more sinister. “You know that I’ve been trying to get on the rotary board for years, and you know that bitch Kelly has been blocking me. This is my only chance to get good with them before she comes back from her sabattical. I swear to God Francis, I swear to God that you better not fuck this up for me.”

She pulled back and straightened his white polo, all smiles, but Francis could see the howl, could see the threat, in her eyes. He wasn’t angry anymore, he wasn’t shaking with rage; he was cold and empty, mollified not through any consideration or comfort that Julie had shown him, but through the need to please her, to keep her, to prove to himself that his was a good life, and for that he needed to be a Good Husband to his Good Wife.

“Of course,” Francis said. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you, sweetie. Now go mingle with the other husbands while I- Oh my gosh, Lynette, is that you?!” Julie shouted, the feminine trill in her voice turned up ten notches to a shriek, and she ran to a handsome woman carrying a baby. 

Francis spared a look back at Maureen and the Interloper, but Damian didn’t look at him again. He was still ignored, and thus he retreated to the one spot at these events where he could have a modicum of fun: the corner with the ice chests full of beer and the husbands who were freshly primped (as much as is expected of their gender) and who stood around watching the festivities.

“Hey! Frank! We haven’t seen you in a while, buddy!”

Francis was yanked into a big hug by a man shorter than himself and twice as wide.

“Danny, it’s been too long,” Francis said, his fury forgotten, and clapped his friend on the back. He pulled back and smiled his first genuine smile in a long time. “How is Patricia? Is her cough getting better?”

“Shit, Frank, the meds you prescribed her worked out great. She’s over there running with the kids now!” the burly man pointed and Francis followed with his eyes, pride swelling in his chest. 

This is why I do what I do.

“I’m so glad to hear that. I know she missed playing with them,” he said, then was yanked into a hug and lifted off the ground by a tall thin man of surprising strength, taller even than Francis. “Tim, be careful... your back,” he managed to exclaim, and Tim placed him earth-side then pumped his hand up and down energetically.

“Doc, I gotta tell ya, I was scared I wouldn’t make it to this potluck cuz of my back, but by God- shit, sorry Father,” he said, looking skyward, “I’m here, and Angie is just beside herself with joy.”

Francis looked over and saw an elegant older woman surrounded and held by her friends, and who was hopefully crying from joy.

“Well, don’t push it too far. I don’t wanna see you back at the hospital!” Francis laughed, and fell into conversation with the group of men whose lives he had touched.

It’s okay. I belong here. I want this.

He focused on the men around him and on the cold beer Danny pushed into his hand.

He does not look for Damian.

He does not look for Damian.

Chapter Text

he’s three beers deep by the time bill pulls out his flask, and by the fifth beer and third large gulp of disgusting fire he’s finally floating away and above it all

pastor gabs keeps looking over here

fuck her

another swallow, and he’s laughing with his friends (I HAVE FRIENDS) and julie

where’s julie

what’s julie why’s julie

julie isn’t around to kill his buzz and julie isn’t here to stop him so

i’m here, i’m spending time with friends, what more does she want

what does she want from me

what when why where

oh shit

A slender, tan woman covered head to toe in white lace stomps towards me, and she looks familiar but it’s hard to-

“Mrs. Archambeau! How’reyou this fine af’noon,” and I’m slurring a little, but I don’t think it’s noticeable-

“Mr. Moore!” She hisses, buffing some shine off my buzz. The laughter of the men around me stops.

“That’s Doctor Moore, Karen,” Danny teases, reminding her of the proper social etiquette. I personally don’t mind much, but-

“Daniel Kaner, don’t you dare go speaking to me like that,” she spits out. “Dr. Moore, do you know what your spawn did to my poor Amelia?!” and finally I notice the little girl hiding behind her imposing, ferocious mother.

“Amelia, how are you today, little miss?” I say, and give the crying girl a little bow. She sniffles and her eyes are red, but she gives me a small, brave smile.

“Don’t you dare talk to her when it was your son who made her like this! Now you and your wife had better bring him over to apologize.”

“Mrs. Archambeau, I’m terribly sorry for whatever William-”

“No! That isn’t enough! It has to be from him!” she shrieks. She’s causing a scene now, and other groups near us are starting to stare. This isn’t-

“Ma’am, I don’t know where Julie is, but I’m sure-”

“You had better get her and your spawn, or she can kiss her spot on the rotary committee good bye, Dr. Moore.” And with that, she turns on her heel and drags her daughter away behind her. Amelia, for her part, gives me a small wave goodbye.

Once she’s out of sight, the men erupt into drunken laughter. Danny claps me on the back and can hardly breathe from his mirth. 

“Guess I better go hunt down the missus,” I joke, and the laughter starts up again, buoying me in a wave of positive energy. I can’t see Julie outside or by the potluck tables, and I'm so caught up in my task that I nearly knock over Pastor Gabrielle. Her arms must be strong because she catches me easily, her friendly demeanor never leaving.

“Have you seen Julie, Pastor?” I manage to get out, righting myself.

“I believe she’s inside getting more napkins. She’s been in there for a while. Maybe she got lost,” the pastor says, and I see a twinkle in her eye but maybe it’s just the sun shining too brightly today.

“Thank you, Pastor.”

“Please, just Gabrielle is fine.”

I could never call her that. It’s too disrespectful. My feet are bigger than I remember and walking up the short steps into the church is tricky. I’m probably just dehydrated.

I head back to the kitchen and don’t pass anyone on the way. I suppose it makes sense, everyone is outside reveling and laughing, and what am I doing? Hunting down my wife, drunk.

No, I’m not drunk, that’s not fair. I’m just… having fun with my friends. All the other guys are doing it, too, so it’s not like it was my idea. I wasn’t even going to drink today.

I shouldn’t be here. I really, really shouldn’t be here. I’m drunk tipsy and I’m in a house of God and I need to leave-

No. I belong here. If anyone doesn’t belong here, it’s him. He’s the one who doesn’t fit. His eyes and that smirk and-

I take a step into the kitchen and hear a thump from the back pantry. We run a canned food drive every summer to stock it up for the winter, and I’ve helped stack the cans back there myself for many years now. It’s a large space, enough to hold dry goods and bags of potatoes, onions, and jars of peaches from the trees out back.

There’s no one else here, the countertops have dirty trays on them, the sink is full of dishes, and there’s a big plastic wrapper of pristine, white paper napkins sitting in the middle of it all, untouched and unopened.

There’s a thump again, and this time I think I hear an ‘ow’. Someone could be hurt. I need to-

I throw open the pantry, and wish I’d walked off a cliff instead. The two of them are in here, and Julie is straightening her blue dress as Damian is pulling his hand out from underneath it and her hair has fallen down around her shoulders and her cheeks are pink and her lipstick is all over his mouth and-

Julie comes towards me and she’s trying to placate me and why is she trying to placate me what and I see Damian’s smug face and those fucking blue, blue eyes lock on me and I-

And they’d look so good together, blonde hair, blue eyes, I really have a type don’t I-

-and the bastard smirks at me and I just-

-I just-

-how dare she kiss him when i can’t-

Chapter Text

-things stop making sense for a while, and-

-he doesn’t recognize his fist connecting with bone until Damian’s body flies back and hits the wooden shelves. Julie screams. His arm pulls back for another punch as though a puppet on a string, but now there are hands fisting in his white shirt and pulling him away-

“-I don’t know why Francis did that, Damian was just helping me carry supplies-”

“-he’s been drinking, I don’t know-”

“-no, please don't call the police-”

-a voice (that Francis has been forcing himself to hate with varying degrees of success) chimes in, and it says, “It’s okay, he’s been going through a lot lately, I completely understand, ” and Damian is holding the right side of his face (oh no), his eye covered, an angry red mark already beginning to spread across the porcelain skin stretched over his jaw, and as he’s leaving (what have I done) he gives Francis a look with a single blue, blue eye-

(stop it stop it stop it don’t look at me)

-and Francis doesn’t know what it means.

Chapter Text

The sun set in the west, as it always did, casting rays of orange and pink across the fields and forests of Nowhere, Georgia, but the taffy-colored light couldn’t touch the silent family as their tinted black SUV raced down the flat highway, overgrown bushes on either side guiding them home.

A few glances sent Julie's way went unreturned, and so Francis focused instead on the flickering shadows of the forest outside the passenger side window. 

At least, that's what he tried to do. In his reflection in the car’s side mirror, Francis couldn’t see his face, but could see flecks of blood on his pressed white shirt, now rumpled.

Damian's blood.

That's twice now that he'd touched it, touched something that was inside the man that he never should have. 

I’ve never hit anyone like that before, out of rage.

-Out of jealousy-

What’s happening to me?

What’s happening to me?

- Will I hide this shirt away in the dark, too?-

Francis sat on the couch in his gloomy office, the sun swinging low and preparing for sleep. The heavy wood door was closed, and though it was muffled, he could hear his family on the other side. His hands fisted in the ruined white shirt in his lap as if he could press the stains out, undo what he’d done by force of hand against cloth, and the cold leather on his bare back seemed to soak out some of his drink-induced fever. 

“Is Daddy gonna be okay?” he heard his favorite child ask, muffled as it was by the thick oak.

“Of course, Georgette, he’s just resting. He had too much fun at church today is all,” his traitorous wife replied. He could imagine exactly the smile she would use, and he hated her for it.

Hands under dresses and lipstick on faces it shouldn’t be.

I hit him.

He knew what he had seen, and he knew what he’d felt; soft skin easily giving way to hard bone underneath; the solid sound of a body hitting a wall. Francis examined his hand, and in the dim light he could see a smudge of lipstick there where his fist had connected with the enemy’s lips.

I took it back from him, didn’t I? I took the kiss back.

Jealousy roiled in his gut, but he couldn’t decide if it was because of Julie or Damian; who was he more envious of? Was he violated, or was he desperate to get something that came so easily to someone else? 

The red, smeared mark on his hand was tacky against his lips.

Francis’ way was gentle, was calm. He was all soft edges and placating smiles and defusing difficult situations. He hadn’t raised a hand to another man since a stranger got too handsy with Julie in a bar some fifteen years ago. His children were warm and open and trusted him, and that was because every day Francis woke up and decided to be nothing like his own father; used the template Geoff Moore imprinted in him as a guide of what not to do.

This isn’t who I am. 

What have I done?

Guilt settled hot and thick in Francis’ gut as he curled up his tall frame on the couch, and it was the red fox that chased him to unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

I’m in his bed and I want to touch him but I can’t. He didn’t mean for me to sleep here but part of me hopes that he did. Hope is uncomfortable for me, but when it comes to him? I can’t stop.

A stray lock of hair falls over his face and rustles in his breath, and I want to move it out of his face so badly that it hurts. Everything in me aches with the need to touch him. I’m watching his bare chest move up and down and I can’t… I can’t stop myself.

I’m sorry. I can’t.

His skin is warm under my ear as I lay my head down and I can hear his heart beating in his chest; low and slow. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump. This heart belongs to me; it is mine. He is my whole heart. I’ve never told him this and I don’t think I can but the small part of me that hopes for better things likes to imagine him accepting me; him pulling me into his arms and holding me close.

His nipple is just below my mouth and I place a gentle kiss there. It’s sweet, somehow, so I kiss again and again, until there’s no space between his chest and my mouth and I’m suckling; I believe with every fiber of my being in this moment that if I do not drink deeply, I will die.

I realize my mistake as he pushes me off and leaps to his feet, his long curly hair splayed out in all directions.

“Alex? What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry, I just-”

“Get out.”

“No, Frankie, I just-”

“Get out,” and his voice is low but it feels like he’s screaming at me. I climb quickly from the bed, too quickly, and trip on the hard metal corner of the frame. A small grunt of pain escapes me and I can’t hold back my tears any longer. They stream down my face and it’s hard to see but I make it to the doorway of his bedroom.

“Alex-” I hear, and I turn around just as I'm closing the door, and I can see his face and he looks sad but I don't understand why. The last thing I see before the door closes is his hard dick pushing against his boxers.

Chapter Text

Francis jolted upright, his brow damp and his heart racing. Fear squeezed his heart, until he remembered who he was, where he was.

I'm home, I'm safe, I'm loved.

A mantra he used across his lifetime to settle himself, to find some calm, but it rang false now in the tumult of his mind. He squinted in the darkness around him and saw his office illuminated by the full moon outside his window. 

His head hurt and his mouth tasted like rotten cotton and he finally remembered the events of the day. 

Damian. This is all Damian's fault.

Ever since the handsome ghoul appeared in Francis' simple, likable life, things had gone to shit. The way he'd slithered in through cracks that Francis hadn't noticed; the same way his hand had slithered up Julie's dress, his lips against hers; the way Francis’ desire for him slithered low in his belly. 

How dare he.

Francis knew exactly what he had to do: put a stop to things once and for all. He pushed himself up and off the couch, the leather squeaking under him. He opened the heavy office door into the cold, dark hallway, a harsh chill on his exposed chest. It must have been late because no one was up and all the lights were out. His steps were careful and quiet, and he found the ever-glowing kitchen easily; eternally illuminated by the lights that blinked and blonked and the thousand-dollar appliances his wife, his lovely  wife, had insisted on spending all of his money on. Sitting on the counter were his keys and wallet and phone; either Julie or himself had set them there before he laid down, he couldn’t remember who. 

He grabbed the wallet but left the rest; he wouldn’t need it. Francis stopped by the sink for a moment and rinsed his mouth of the rotten cotton as best he could. He took the back hallway and stopped in the laundry room first, changing into his old jeans but not bothering with a shirt. Francis walked further down the hallway to the garage and opened the closet next to the door that led out. He grabbed an old leather jacket and pulled it on, then searched through the back of the closet to find his old, heavy boots. Bent down to tie the laces, he heard a creak from behind and held his breath, staying completely still. Suddenly he was eight years old again and fear spiked his heart; what if he was caught?

But then he remembered himself, remembered that no one could hurt him anymore, remembered that he was over six feet tall and an ex-football player and he wasn’t small and helpless. He stood and turned to face whoever had caught him, and found no one.

A ghost.

His hand slipped inside the jacket and found the key in the inner breast pocket there. Francis zipped the jacket and walked into the three-car garage, carefully closing the door behind him. He pulled back the dust-covered blue tarp in the corner. Francis opened the smaller garage door by hand, not wanting to risk the mechanical clacking of the door opener motor, and pushed the vehicle outside. He popped open the seat, pulled on his helmet and gloves, and hopped on. 

The motorcycle roared to life under him, and Francis felt more like himself than he had in a long time, nostalgia crystallizing his self-image and strengthening his resolve. 

The ride to Mason was cold and bright, his way lit by the open moon above, and the stars chased him to his destination.

Chapter Text

It started to sprinkle, the road reflective and black, and Francis took care not to push the machine to hard, not to take turns too quickly for fear of crashing and not being found until it was too late, so devoid was the road of any other cars and the hour so late.

I’m anxious, not suicidal.

I need to be careful.

And was he acting carefully? Was driving up to Macon in the middle of the night after a day of drinking, a day that ended in violence and silence and loneliness, really the best choice?

He knew it was. He knew it was the only thing he had left to him: his choice.

And Francis always made the right choice, nowadays; had made the right choice most of his life, pardoning a few horrible exceptions. 

Alex.

He pushed it down, pushed the name and the boy and his memories down. The only thing that mattered was making Damian stop, making him stop and forcing him to leave Francis and his family alone. His family was all he had, and Damian already had so much.

His looks and his youth and his money and his job… his power. His charisma and the way people fall at his feet.

It’s not fair. 

Glass wants everything that’s mine because somehow what he has isn’t enough already. He’s taken my wife, my peace of mind, he’s infiltrated my church, my town…

WHEN is it ENOUGH? What more could he possibly take from me? 

And yet, the memory of Damian, of his magnetism and his scent and the way his body moved under his clothes soon clouded Francis’ mind, drowning out the roar of the motor and the wind screaming past his helmet. 

And that was how he found himself standing in the open doorway of apartment 1339, in the hall of the building Francis could never forget the location of, so seared was everything to do with the topic of Damian Glass in his mind; he had knocked, forcefully, loudly, repeatedly, with a confidence he did not feel. 

And Damian had opened it, of course, as he always would, clad only in a grey towel held in place with a hand at his waist, his blonde hair damp, a pink flush across his cheeks and bare chest, the bruise on his jaw angry and loud.

Francis stood there, heart pounding in his chest, breath coming heavier, and rage, pure rage, coursing through him as Damian recognized him, Damian’s signature smirk replacing his confused expression.

“What’s up, Doc?”

Chapter Text

Damian had taken too long to answer the door, according to Francis. His pulse lept along with his fist pounding on a door that read 1339. And then, Damian had opened it, looking uncharacteristically disheveled, his blonde hair damp and sticking to his forehead, his deep blue eyes hollow, desaturated, and completely naked except for a long grey towel clenched around his hips.

He smirked up at Francis, and Francis wanted to place a mirrored bruise on the other side of Damian’s face.

“What’s up, Doc?”

The open doorway seemed to yawn at Francis, darkness inside that settled heavily over everything and obscured the shining, smooth surfaces Francis remembered from the first and only time he’d been to Damian’s apartment. The pale man stood like a wraith in front of an open crypt; dark, dangerous, foreboding.

“Did you come here to glare me to death or was there an actual reason? I’m kinda busy at the moment,” Damian smirked, leaning against the door jam and cocking his hips; he was completely unselfconscious of his nudity; Francis put this down on his list of Things I Definitely Do Not Admire and In Fact Hate about Damian Glass.

Francis’ black eyes moved over Damian’s jaw again, taking in the fresh bruise there.

I did that. I did that to him.

He couldn’t tell if he was upset about it or exhilarated by it. Exalted, even. Something in his chest rattled like a snake; a warning.

Francis raised his hand and struck, pushing Damian square in the center of his chest with an open hand. The shorter man knocked backwards, slipping on the polished white marble tile, and broke his fall on the low wall that separated the foyer from the rest of his apartment.

“Well, that wasn’t very nice,” Damian spat out. Francis stepped into the dark apartment and noticed how Damian’s towel had slipped even lower, exposing another couple of inches of perfect pale muscle; how Damian was now visibly uncomfortable, his coquettish pretense dropped, a scowl muddying his usually gorgeous face. “What the fuck do you want, Francis.”

It wasn’t a question, and Francis pretended he didn’t notice how Damian didn’t use his nickname.

Good. It’s not for him.

His drawl was thick as he answered, words bending together to send a specific message that the stoccata enunciation of Northern folks couldn’t convey.

“You,” and here Francis pointed at his enemy (an enemy with blue eyes and perfect skin and this scent that makes me want to-), “need to stay the fuck away from me and my family, and stop whatever it is you think you’re doin’.” 

It’s here that I can’t hold back, and end up laughing in his face. Or rather, I would have, if he were closer. But he’s too far away.

“Whatever it is that I think that I’m doing? Really?” 

The laugh was what made up Francis’ mind. He stepped fully into the apartment and slammed the door shut behind him. The wall shook, and the part of Francis that was quiet and gentle and believed in conflict resolution was so, so sorry for slamming the door, it was an accident, I swear, but drowned out by the loud part of him that was willing to do whatever it took to make Damian stop.

Damian had once told Francis to take what he wanted, to choose for himself; well, this was what he chose: he chose for Damian to stop.

“I surely have no idea what you mean,” I say, and push my hair out of my face, the strands sticking there. Gross. What a fucking joke.

For once, things are not going to plan, and I do not like that at all.

His fists are clenched at his sides and that is just so CUTE. Fuck, I wish I could show him how adorable he is, but he wouldn’t hear it, would he? Grr, I'm a big strong man, I am no cutie patootie. 

“You know exactly what you’re doing, and you’re gonna leave my wife the fuck alone, and you’re gonna leave me the fuck alone,” he says, and god, his accent is so hot. I adjust my hold on the towel and am grateful to myself for buying the thickest towels I could find. I don’t think an errant erection would help things at the moment. 

“Are we clear?” he spits out, I mean, actually spits out. Who does that? What is this, a Western? Though I guess it would be a… South-ern? Anyway.

Francis stepped closer to Damian, drawing up to his full height and glowering at the vulnerable man leaning against the short wall now not because he needs help standing, but because he was-

Is he posing? Is he actually fucking posing right now?

Damian’s pale gaze met Francis’ dark one equally, and it was clear he wasn’t intimidated. Francis’ right arm raised and pulled back slightly.

“What are you going to do, Francis? Hit me? Again?” Damian said quietly, and shame raced through Francis, cooling the heat in his veins. Francis’ hands dropped to his side.

He’s standing there glaring down at me, looking like an angel of vengeance, his dark curly hair framing his head, his brow heavy, and I can see the wheels in his mind working, I can see him punishing himself behind his eyes, and I need him to leave.

I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I need him to leave.

I’m treating him like Julie does, and I don’t want kowtowed Frankie, beaten down Frankie, or guilty Frankie. I want him wholly and honestly. I want his vengeance and his vibrance and his passion. I want everything he wants to give me and I want it to be everything.

This isn’t everything. This isn't my Frankie. This is just someone here because they’re scared and sad. 

I can feel the tears gathering in my eyes, but my dick hasn’t gotten the message, and I need him to leave before I make a fool of myself. I am controlled in all things, but not when it comes to him. I knew this, but I didn’t really until this moment. What a shame.

“If that’s all, then you need to leave now. I’m really quite… busy,” I lie, though it’s not really a lie. I mean he did interrupt me. My eyes flick to the bedroom door left ajar and the small light coming through the crack.

I look back at Frankie and see he’s followed my eyes; he looks from the bedroom door to me in the darkness of my apartment and I can see him thinking again but he looks… different. And again, my insistent downstairs neighbor tries to make himself known, and this was fun and all but it’s over now. 

I push past him and rest my hand on the door handle, my left hand still holding my fucking towel, and honestly? It kinda throbs, still hurts after what I did, and the scar is ugly, and it doesn’t match the rest of me, and I’m thinking, maybe...

Maybe it wasn’t worth it after all.

“Look, Doc, if you want me to leave you and your wife alone, fine,” I say to the closed door, and hate myself for it, but maybe it’s for the best. I hear him shift behind me, turn towards me, his heavy boots squeaking on the smooth tile. It’s cold under my feet, and I realize how cold I am. “If that’s what you want.”

“What I want?” he asks, and he’s closer than I thought. 

What do I want?

The answer to that had been so clear just a few minutes ago, but the longer Francis was here in the darkness of Damian’s apartment, the longer he was wrapped in Damian’s scent (cinnamon and heat and something else), the less he thought about Julie and the more he thought about the strange, magnetic man in front of him; the man he was drawn to despite all reason, the man he drove through the middle of the night to see, the man he thought about when he went to sleep at night and when he awoke in the morning.

The pale expanse of Damian’s back glowed in the dim apartment, the muscles there rippling with clear tension.

I do this to him.

Francis could see the dimples above Damian’s ass exposed above the grey towel, and he desperately, achingly wanted to touch. His eyes rode the curve up and across Damian’s shoulders, and from where he stood, too close to Damian,

how did i get so close

he could also see the scar on Damian’s arm, the scar from an accident that Francis himself had stitched up.

I’ve touched his blood too many times; it was inside of him; it’s not right.

He must’ve gone to someone else to have the stitches removed.

And jealousy boiled hot and deep in his stomach. The rage he’d set down at Damian’s words roared up again. Francis’ fingers touched the scar and he noticed the way Damian flinched.

“Who took out the stitches?”

“Does it matter? It wasn’t you. You should be happy about that, since you find me so distasteful.”

“I don’t-”

“Don’t lie to me.” 

Francis pulled back his hand at that, shocked; it was so far from the truth.

“I don’t -”

“Anyway,” Damian interrupted, and finally turned the handle and opened the door enough for blinding light from the hallway to spill in. “You want me to stop, so I’ve stopped. You want me gone, I’m gone. Now I’m telling you to get the hell out of my apartment.”

What I want?

With the same force he’d used to push Damian back into his apartment, he now used to push the door closed. It was too sudden, too unexpected, and caught Damian off-guard. His hand connected to the door handle wrenched his body forward, and he was sent off-balance, his un-injured right shoulder connecting with the door, and his left hand flying up to steady himself against the door.

The towel, of course, dropped to the ground, no longer held up by a clenched hand.

Francis heard Damian’s mouth open to speak, heard the intake of breath followed by the tell-tale click as tongue leaves teeth and prepares to utter vowels and consonants to transmit a message, and he couldn’t bear it.

His large, calloused hand came up quickly and covered Damian’s mouth, pressing and squeezing against the soft, warm skin there; he heard a small grunt of pain and realized his hand must’ve pressed too hard against the bruise on Damian’s jaw.

This didn’t make him stop. In fact, hearing that sound, knowing it was from something Francis had done to Damian’s body, the bruise on his perfectly strong jaw, it sparked a possessiveness in Francis that he had pushed deep down, as deep as it would go.

But, like all buried things, it grew into something else, something new, and he couldn’t deny it any longer. Francis pressed harder on Damian’s jaw, and pulled his head back with his strength. Damian’s hands splayed open on the door in front of him, and the tilt of his head arched his back.

Francis crowded into Damian’s space and took the stretch of his neck as an invitation; an invitation that Francis had written for himself, seemingly, but an invitation nonetheless. His left hand smoothed down Damian’s soft back, the skin there stinging him as he drew a long line down, and stopped at Damian’s hip. Here, his fingers found a home, and he squeezed the flesh here, what flesh there was to be found; mostly skin over muscle over bone. It was hard, and hot, and warm underneath, but Damian’s outsides were so, so soft.

Francis squeezed Damian’s hip harder, maybe too hard, because Damian made another sound, and Francis stopped being able to control himself (if any of this could be called self control).

I was finally free to bury my face into the juncture of Damian’s neck and shoulder, and I breathed deeply.

Cinnamon and heat and something else, like the sun on my face on a bright day, like fireworks in July, like midnight on the last day of summer.

Like a memory.

I scented him deeply, and when I could bear it no longer, I tasted him. First gently, tentatively, and then more. He was salt and fire, and more delicious than anything I’d ever tasted. My teeth ached in their gums, and I knew my tongue would not satisfy me. I needed, more than anything, to bite.

So I did.

My teeth pressed against his skin and he made a sound that spurred me on. I bit harder, just a little, and the strain of his neck muscle under my teeth was the most pleasurable thing I’d experienced in a very long time. Drool slid past my teeth, and my lips slipped over his skin as my teeth ground down. He was moaning then, shifting in my hands, and I chased the sounds he made, wanting to force him to make more, wanting more to pour out of him. 

The pressure inside my head told me to be careful, to be gentle, to ease up and ask if he was okay, but overwhelming it was the honest part of me, the part that lived deep in my belly, the part that said to push it further, just far enough. A little more pressure, and my jaw muscles were hot as I bit down.

One more time.

I could do it one more time.

I could tell the moment I broke through his skin. Just a little bit. Just enough. I tasted metal and pulled back, little red streaks where my teeth had been, caught in the saliva there. He panted through the hand I still had over his mouth, and I looked down to where my left hand was gripping his hip so tightly that it was indenting his skin.

This was insane. This whole thing was insanity. And I wanted to drown in it.

“You,” I growled out, the taste of him in my mouth. “I want you.” Damian whimpered then under me, and my old leather jacket creaked as I let go of his hip and reached for my fly. The button popped easily, and Damian was very still as the sound of the zipper echoed in the quiet apartment; quiet, except for our panting.

Yes, I could hear Damian panting through my hand, could feel the air he tried to take pushing and pulling past my hand, hot on the way out, cold on the way in. His heavy, ragged breath was everything in that moment. 

I used my entire body to press him against the door, leather sticking to skin sticking to wood, and used my free hand to push my jeans and boxer-briefs down. There was no room to move, we were so close, and there was even less room to think about what I was doing.

I didn’t think; I acted. I took what I wanted.

The hand over his mouth slipped as I tried and failed to press into him with my length.

“Frankie, no-” and I could hear something wet in his voice, felt something wet as my hand came down on his mouth again, but as I realized this, I was already pressing inside of him, and I lost myself.

It was moist, and warm, and the head slipped inside easily. He moaned into my hand, and it almost felt like I was being sucked inside. I had thought that his skin was hot, his breath was hot, his muscles under my teeth were hot, but compared to this heat here, underneath him? 

Cold.

I pushed, I was pulled, inside of him, and the heat was unbearable; I had to move, had to relieve the pressure, the itch that I felt along my length and inside my balls. I pulled out a little but that didn’t help anything, and so I pushed back in and was fully seated inside him.

We were joined completely, and he seemed to be twitching around me, especially at the base of my cock where the ring of muscles at his entrance stayed seated. He squeezed me from inside, and a shiver coursed through me.

“Shit.”

I started thrusting then, trying to relieve this unbearable pressure, his scent swirling around me, the moisture below sticky and sticking to my skin. Damian stood there, my hand still over his mouth, his hands splayed in front of his chest against the door, pressed almost flat to it as I thrust into him, and he stayed very still apart from twitching when I thrust in. 

The muscles of his back were tight with tension and firm against my leather-bound chest, but his ass was soft, so sweetly soft, and pressed against my pelvis over and over again. The kind of ass men would die for and women would swoon over.

He wrenched his head away from my grasp.

“Frankie-”

And I bit down into the juncture of his neck and shoulder again, hard. His moan was louder now, unhindered, raw, and I could feel his muscles clench around my cock. My pelvic muscles contracted as my entire body went tense, and too quickly I was coming. His hand reached behind him as my hips stuttered and I went rigid, and he held me to his back with a fist in my leather jacket until it was over. 

“I-”

“Frankie-”

“No. Don’t call me that,” and the haze started lifting, bringing me back down to reality from where I’d been floating somewhere up near the ceiling.

I started pulling away from him, pulling myself out of him (oh my God, what have I done?) but his other hand reached back and grabbed me too, pulling me back to him, pulling me back inside of him.

Francis was trapped, caught inside of Damian’s hole but trapped, too, by his hands, and by what Francis had done. Francis rubbed together the fingers of his right hand, the hand that had cruelly held Damian’s mouth shut, and felt the moisture there. He tasted the liquid, and it was salty. 

He was crying.

I made him cry.

What have I done?

He looked up and saw blood trickling down Damian’s shoulder from the second bite, could taste the overwhelming metal of it in his mouth, and he couldn’t stand it anymore.

He wrenched away from Damian, sliding soft and cold from the warm body before him. Disgusted, he watched Damian reach behind and press a hand against where he and Francis had just been joined. Horror overtook him, and guilt, and everything he’d had relief from for so briefly.

It all came roaring back into his head, and now it had more ammunition:

I hurt him. 

I fucked him.

I made him cry.

What have I done?

Francis pushed Damian out of the way (gently, carefully) and ran into the hallway, shoving himself into his pants, and ran down all thirteen flights of stairs and out into the main lobby where it was too bright, but blessedly empty.

I hurt him I fucked him i made him cry what have I done echoed in his head and refused to be drowned out by the roar of the motorcycle under him all the way back to Nowhere.

Chapter Text

He stopped drinking after that. Hell, he stopped sleeping too, and without Julie’s secret pharmacy he wouldn’t have been able to keep working, except for the two hours of coma he got every night. He knew the story people were telling about the incident at the church potluck because Maureen had brought it up so many times, and in his private sessions with Pastor Gabrielle, she focused on that narrative.

He focused on it, too. How he’d had too much to drink because he’d been especially stressed at work; how he’d been neglecting his perfect angel wife Julie; how Damian Glass, the only Fraggle employee who deigned to attend events in their small town, courtesy and elegance incarnate, was helping Julie get supplies; how Francis had misunderstood the situation and had an uncharacteristic outburst because of the particular details of his stressful job; and how it wasn’t fair for the state government to put so much pressure on him to serve such a large rural area all by himself.

Julie during this time was the picture of perfection; a perfect wife in a perfect life. She hadn’t even been taking her Saturday morning yoga trips up to Macon, and made dinner both Saturday and Sunday evenings. Since she was home the entire time, Francis’ adopted parents hadn’t been picking up his kids, and so he hadn’t seen Mrs. & Mr. González in weeks. They called him, but he could barely stand to talk to them, guilt slipping up his throat, and quickly gave the phone each time to George and William. 

“Francis, we understand what you’re going through, and we’re here to help you,” Pastor Gabrielle said at their fourth private meeting in two weeks. He had attended church consistently, and even attended the men’s bible study on Wednesdays. All-told, he was on the church grounds most days of the week. 

“I… thank you, Pastor,” Francis said, his head bowed. 

And he knew he must’ve understood the situation wrong, but he also couldn’t get the way it felt to be inside of Damian out of his mind, the way it felt to hold him, the taste of him, the freedom of him; and so he was at war with himself. But there was no physical evidence of what he’d done besides the bruises on his knuckles, and those faded. 

His memories of that night were crystal clear, but he hoped that perhaps they were too clear, that they were so clear as to be manufactured. He halfway convinced himself they were, until he ran into Damian and his ability to deny the truth evaporated.

It was a Saturday twenty days after the incident. Twenty days of church and Pastor Gabrielle and Julie doting and two-hour comas spent on the couch in his home office (Julie tried to pull him to bed, tried to seduce him into her arms, and he couldn’t; he just couldn’t); twenty days of Maureen gabbering and him trying to convince himself that it wasn’t real and that he’d imagined all of it. 

Since Nowhere was such a small town, it had only one grocery store that also served as a general store, and the hardware store was right next door and owned by the same person. 

On this Saturday afternoon, the sun shined brightly outside, and Francis was examining apples. Julie wanted to make an apple pie (really? an apple pie? she’s trying so hard) and Francis jumped at the chance to get out of the house and away from her wandering hands and cold eyes. She was constantly touching him, constantly trying to use her body to convince him of something that he didn’t have a name for or understand, and so he withdrew further from her; every touch made him sick.

Maybe this was another reason for the frequent church visits, the bible study, the private chats with the pastor, the long hours he’d been working.

He had tried a couple of times with her, wanting to make things better, wanting to lose himself in her, but each time just reminded him of how things used to be with her when it felt like she actually loved him; when it felt like he actually loved her. But the cold kisses they exchanged contrasted too sharply with hot skin he’d bitten; the softness of her body contrasted too sharply with the hard planes he’d touched; and the frost in her blue eyes couldn’t compare to the heat of dark blue ones that looked at him as if he hung the moon and fucked it into submission.

If he got hard, it was because of thoughts of Damian; and so he withdrew from Julie completely. 

Saturday afternoon, and Julie needed apples, so Francis had grabbed his keys off the counter and left before she could stop him. If she needed goddamn apples, she’d have goddamn apples, and he’d have the space he so desperately needed.

Francis stared at the buckets full of different types of apples: gala, fuji, pink lady, red delicious, and wished he’d asked what kind of apples Julie wanted before he left.

I could just get two pounds of each.

But what would we do with six pounds of unused apples? And what if only one pound is needed for the pie? 

Seven pounds of apples.

That’s too many apples. We could donate the extra?

As long as he stood there contemplating apples, standing under the bright florescent lights of the grocery store, he didn’t have to be home.

There was some measure of peace here, holding fruit in each hand, weighing it, reading the little signs under each name that described what they were used for and what their flavor was. It was the least amount of stress he’d experienced in almost three weeks; no, longer. And it would have continued, had he not heard a voice that sent a shiver up his spine like a touch from a cold lover.

“Darcy, I under stand the timeline here, but-” Damian’s voice paused, and Francis dropped the apples from his hands. They bounced on the ground and he crouched down quickly to pick them up.

“Look, Darcy Darling, I hear you, I just-” his voice was closer, and Francis peaked his head up and looked around. He saw the blond demon at the end of the cold vegetable display about seventy-five feet away. If he could just get to the other side of the display before Damian straightened from where he was bent over in front of the mushroom packages, maybe he could make it without being seen.

“I admire the tone you’re taking with me, I truly do, but I’d like to take this moment to remind you that I am your supervisor, and-” Damian was still bent over, his soft knit grey sweater hiked up just slightly over his back, exposing a sliver of skin above his khakis, and Francis was trapped, his eyes caught there, sliding over the pale skin, remembering things that weren’t supposed to be real.

Damian huffed loudly, stood straight up, and tucked his phone into his back pocket. He turned fully away from Francis and put the mushrooms he’d grabbed down into the cart. The good doctor took this opportunity to quickly walk around the corner and kept walking until he was in the baking aisle. He stood staring at the types of vanilla (madagascar or the fake stuff?) but the benign perusal couldn’t hold his attention the way it had just moments earlier. His heart raced and thoughts of Damian and his skin swirled around his head.

“Dr. Moore?” came a voice behind him, and panic locked onto Francis’ heart. He turned around to face his doom, and then moved his eyes down a full foot until he was looking into the face of Mrs. Winshire, a geriatric patient of his that he knew was also friends with Maureen’s ailing mother. 

“Mrs. Win- Mrs. Winshire! Hello! I didn’t see you there,” Francis rambled. “How are you? How is Percy?” Percy was, of course, Mrs. Winshire’s pet parrot.

“He’s fine, dear, I’m fine as well. Are you alright? You seem a bit… flushed.” Mrs. Winshire peered at him, small black eyes peeking out from the wrinkled curtains of her face. 

“Yes, I’m sorry, I’m fine,” Francis said, and willed himself to calm down and still his pounding heart. 

“You know, dear,” Mrs. Winshire says, and reaches down into her purse, “I was awfully sorry to hear about what happened at the-” she said, then looked up and promptly shut up.

“What happened where?” came a voice as smooth as silk, and Francis’ pulse immediately shot up. He turned around and standing there in all his beautiful pale glory was none other than Damian Glass. “Is everything alright, Doctor?”

Chapter Text

He looks so nervous and I am delighted.  I’d be nervous, too, if the man I’d punched publicly then held down and ferally fucked suddenly appeared behind me. His tan skin has lost its color, and he seems properly blanched, like a sexy… I don't know, asparagus or something. 

“I- I’m fine,” he says, stuttering, and my lips can’t help but quirk up at his panic. 

He’s adorable. 

“Well, as long as you’re alright,” I say, with not a hint of disingenuity. I address the woman with him, extending a hand in greeting. “Miss, I’m not sure if we’ve met before. My name is Damian Glass.” Miss Old Fuck looks at me like I’ve grown a third head, and now I am absolutely certain of the topic of conversation.

Taylor Swift wrote a horrible song with Brendan Urie about this exact thing. Damn Darcy for listening to that trash.

I see the exact moment Miss Old Fuck’s Southern Programming comes back online. Her eyes twist up and her pristine white dentures are exposed as she grasps my hand in her soft, squishy one, laying her other on top, sandwiching my poor flesh. I’m barely able to maintain my smile, and force my eyes to stay sincere and not slip into sarcasm.

If I ever get this old, kill me.

“I’m Mrs. Winshire, dear. I am so sorry about that, I forgot myself for a moment. It’s been a long day, and... you know what? I should get back to Percy. He hasn’t been feeling well after all,” and here she turns to Doctor Sexy and flashes those chiclets again. “Dr. Moore, it was so nice seeing you today. I hope you-” she glances nervously at me, “I’ll see you in church.” With a comforting pat to his shoulder, she turns her cart around and walks as fast as her little old legs can carry her.

Francis’ eyes follow her retreat, and I can see indecision scrawled across his handsome features. Brow furrowed, pitch black eyes.

He turns to me and opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, and then disappointingly closes it. 

How boring. 

I take a few steps closer, and he doesn’t move. It’s like he’s frozen to the spot, and I'm not one to NOT take advantage. I lean in, and his dark eyes follow me, and I almost see something like hope, and then-

He takes a step back and throws up his hands between us.

“What are you doing?!”

I look up into his dark eyes with all the innocence I can muster.

“Why, Dr. Moore, I certainly don’t know what you mean! I’m only just-” I lean back and show him the object in my hand, “I need vanilla for a cake that I’m baking, and you just so happened to be standing in front of the entire row. Unless, did you need it?” I present it to him, ignorance spread across my eyes and mouth in a viscous fluid.

Shit. Viscous fluid. I can’t stop my eyes from going dark and my mouth from tilting up and now I’m looking at him like I want him to fuck me and-

Where did my self-control go?

“Are you…” ah, finally! He speaks! “Are…” he looks up and down the aisle, and behind him as well. I’m on the edge of my metaphorical seat. He looks me dead in the eye and asks: “Are you okay?”

Oh my god. He’s so sincere. He must get taken advantage of all the time with a heart like that.

"Oh?” I ask. “You care? About me? And how I'm doing?" A little bit of bitterness seeps into my tone, though I’m trying my best to paint a different picture.

Ah, and see? In the slouch of his shoulders, the crease between his brows: there is the guilt settling in. At least, I think it’s guilt. I mean, would a guiltless man go through so much trouble to build such wholesome, hetero Christian lifestyle? But he’s never told me as much, and so all I have are assumptions and dreams.

Delicious dreams.

“I just…” he trails off and looks like he’s trying not to shit himself. But you know, endearingly.

“I see. Well, Dr. Moore, you know, it was a little difficult there for a while,” I look down as if I’m ashamed or embarrassed, as if the weight of his gaze is too much and I’m reminded of very sad, dark things.

Traumatizing things. 

Manipulatable things.

“I was… worried I might have to… get checked out, actually. It was… there was discomfort.” 

“I’m… Dami- Glass, I’m sorry, I didn’t-” he can’t even speak, and tears are starting to well up in his eyes. Oh my fucking GOD, I want to throw him down on a sack of flour and fuck his brains out this very instant. 

“And I didn’t- I didn’t have anyone to check for me, and I can’t go to,” here I let out a mirthless laugh, “I don't exactly have a doctor I can go to about this.”

His fists clench, his teeth grit, and I have only one more card to play for things to be lined all the way up for me to knock them down.

“It actually still… it still hurts, and I’m worried…” I look down and away, hoping he takes the bait and trying my hardest at playing the victim.

“Glass, if it’s been this long and still… I… maybe I could…”

“You could what? I don’t… I don’t want a recommendation for a physician. I couldn’t see one about this. I’m too embarrassed, and really it was my fault anyway-”

He reaches out like he wants to touch me, to comfort me, but drops his hand.

“Please, can I… can I help? I need to help.”

I feel a smile coming on and I shove it way deep down. Don’t blow this!

“I mean, I don’t want to put you in an awkward position. It’ll probably be fine anyway. I should go,” and I turn to go, but then I can’t.

Because his hand has reached out and grabbed the back of my sweater.

“Please let me make this right,” he begs. And who am I to deny Frankie what he wants?

Chapter Text

Damian Glass’s car followed Dr. Francis Moore’s out of the grocery store parking lot. The full of uncharacteristically melancholy clouds promising rain. The two men made it inside the hospital just as sloppy, wet rain drops began splattering against the asphalt.

The lobby was dark, but lit up as Francis flipped the switch just inside the large glass entry doors. 

“Back here, please.”

And so Damian followed Francis further into the building and through a pair of familiar double doors. Francis turned the lights on here, too, and flipped the wall switch in the first examination room to the left.

Pink pastel walls greeted them. Everything was exactly where it should be: a single examination table to the left, a small metal sink, various glass jars of cotton balls, tongue depressors, and bandaids. On the counter next to the sink was an opened box of gloves. The same posters advising against smoking and reminders to get a yearly physical lined the walls. A small trash bin was tucked away in one corner, and on the wall next to the exam table hung a blood pressure monitor and a lighting device for looking in eyes, ears, noses, and throats. A single rolling, circular, backless chair sat tucked under the counter.

Deja vu.

It was all too familiar to Francis, and so too was the familiarity he felt having Damian here in this room. This was the room he’d cut that red, ruined shirt off of his pale dancer’s form. This was where he’d almost cum after deep throating Damian’s bloody shirt, wanting to wholly devour and possess his essence. This place had been tainted by Damian Glass, and here the man himself was once again.

Except this time, it was his fault that Damian was hurt. And he had to do the right thing. 

If it really hurts so bad after so many weeks, I must have really hurt him.

I wish I wasn’t-

I wish I wasn’t so selfish.

Why can’t I stop being selfish?

Francis caught Damian looking nervously around the room then, and guilt burrowed deep into his soul.

“I’m sorry, Damian.” 

Damian inhaled sharply.

“How do we… maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all,” came his voice, usually so full of bounce and swagger, but now small and flat.

“Please, let me help you,” Francis begged again.

“I… Okay. Can you just please be careful? It’s… it still hurts.”

Francis wanted to throw up with how filled with rage and guilt he was at himself.

“Of course. I will be as careful as possible.” Francis turned to put on gloves from the open box on the counter next to the sink. “Oh,” he realized. “I need to grab something. I’ll be right back.” He didn’t make eye contact with Damian as he quickly but professionally left the room, the door softly snicking shut on his way out.

He reached the supply closet and rooted around until he found what he was looking for, and headed back to the exam room. He knocked gently, opened the door, and stood frozen in the doorway.

There, Damian Glass was bent over the exam table and leaning on his elbows, fully clothed except for the slash of pale where his bare, round ass was exposed to the air, his khakis pulled down to his knees, and his legs pressed together and against the exam table.

Francis stood there in shock long enough that Damian finally had to say something.

“Dr. Moore, can you please close the door? This is a very embarrassing position, and I know that there isn’t anyone else here besides us, but still,” he pleaded, and Francis saw the pink of his ears and a hint of a blush creeping up his pale neck.

 Francis’ jeans pressed tight in the front, and he berated his body’s lack of professionalism, lack of shame.

Disgusting. I’m disgusting.

Stop it right now and help this man.

“I’m sorry,” came the response, the drawl thick and ‘sorry’ coming out more as ‘sarr-e’. The door snicked shut once again as the doctor walked all the way into the room. Francis reached the counter and pulled on a pair of gloves, finally sitting on the stool and rolling over to check his patient.

“Is everything okay?” came a quiet question after Francis behind Damian for a minute.

“Yes, I’m just trying to see if I can… see anything wrong on the outside first. Make sure nothing is... “ Francis cleared his throat, “torn.”

And he looked, his black eyes walking over the smooth, pale skin. Damian had a striking figure, and his ass was no exception. It was well-rounded by muscle and fat, the thick chords of his thighs leading up to his hips, and a deep dimple stood above each cheek on his lower back.

“Is it alright if I touch you? I need to examine further.” Francis hoped his voice didn’t crack, but his hands slightly shook at the prospect of touching Damian’s skin again.

On that night three weeks prior, he hadn’t been able to properly touch, properly worship this part of Damian’s body, and though he knew this was a purely professional situation, that he had to take care of what he’d fucked up, a small, screaming part of Francis wanted him to TAKE.

“Whatever you need to do, Dr. Moore. Just, please be careful.” Francis couldn’t detect a hint of sarcasm in Damian’s voice, and this disturbed him further. For him to have hurt Damian so badly that he lost that spark of flippant joy…

He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t try to fix this.

So he placed his hands on either side of the crevice, and pulled them apart as gently as he could. Down here, Damian was hairless and pink, and his asshole fluttered in the cold air.

Francis realized he was too close, that his breath was disturbing Damian’s body, and so he pulled his head away and did his best to slide on his doctor’s mask. 

He observed distantly: Smooth skin, no tears, no bruising, no lumps or lesions or visible trauma.

Thank god.

“It looks okay, but if it hurts, then that might mean there’s trauma on the inside,” at the word ‘inside’, Francis’ voice definitely shook, but he prayed to a God that he believed in that Damian didn’t hear it.

“Oh. Um, you don’t have to… I mean, I’m already asking too much of you,” Damian said.

His pale skin burned Francis through the thin gloves, and he pulled away as though scalded.

“No, Damian, I need to do this. You need to be taken care of.” He turned away and grabbed the tube sitting on the counter. When he turned back, Damian seemed a little more tense, but didn’t say anything else.

“This might be a little cold,” Francis said, and pressed his lubed finger to Damian’s entrance.

Chapter Text

“No, Damian, I need to do this. You need to be taken care of.” He turns away from me and it feels like my heart has been torn out of my chest.

You need to be taken care of.

When’s the last time anyone has said that to me?

When’s the last time anyone’s cared enough to consider me?

I know I’ve… been a bit dishonest in this whole situation, but…

I love him. I LOVE him. I love him.

He presses on me from behind as tears well in my eyes, and I can’t stop them from hitting the crunchy paper cover on the exam table.

He, having been listening and looking for any sign of my discomfort through this entire thing, of course stops immediately and pulls away.

Fuck! Hold it together, Glass.

He hadn’t even gone inside of me yet! I want to scream my frustration but I swallow it down. 

“Did that hurt?” his voice cracks and I almost feel bad for him. He’s really beating himself up over the whole thing. 

What a sweetheart!

“Mn, just a little bit,” I lie, and furiously deny my body’s urge to grind against the exam table.

“Okay, I’ll try to be gentler,” and his digit is back, and I can feel his breath on me.

If there is a god, then I thank her kindly for this blessing which I am about to receive.

Chapter Text

Francis was fully hard now inside of his worn jeans, and he was concerned over Damian’s discomfort, of course, but he also couldn’t deny the thrill he felt when Damian said it hurt.

I did this to him.

Why can’t I stop doing this to him?

These parts of him warred inside: the soft, considerate part that cared more about the man in front of him’s comfort than he cared to admit, and the part that, only where Damian Glass was concerned, wanted to consume, devour, possess.

One gloved hand pulled a full cheek to the side as his other descended once again, a lubed finger pressing against the entrance. He rubbed gently, searching for any errant bumps or evidence of damage, but all he ended up doing was swirling his pad over the ridged skin there, like a pouted kiss.

“Is this okay?”

Damian’s voice was strained when he replied: “Yes.”

“I’m going to go in now.”

Francis was true to his word, and his pointer finger slipped in easily to the first knuckle. He pushed further, and his entire finger was swallowed up. The whole way down, Damian’s entrance sucked him in.

A wet spot formed at the front of Francis’ jeans, but he was too enraptured to notice.

“I’m going to m- move it now.”

“Okay,” Damian responded, a little breathlessly.

Francis felt around, gently curling his finger skyward, then to either side, searching for anything, anything at all, but found nothing. It was smooth inside, and the pressing heat around his finger made it difficult to remember where he was and why he was doing this. 

His finger curved down then and pressed.

“Hng,” Damian moaned, and Francis froze, realizing what he’d done. His cheeks flamed up and his stomach dropped, and his cock begged for release.

“Is that… is that okay?” Francis held his breath, waiting for a response. A moment later it came.

“Yes.”

His finger curled down again, pressed again, just a little bit harder, with a little more pressure, and Damian’s hips ground against the edge of the exam table. Francis could see Damian raise a hand to his mouth and hold it there, suppressing his response. 

“I might need to add another finger.” Francis paused, heart beating fast and stomach coiling and uncoiling. “Is that okay?”

“Please.”

Francis removed his hand, added more lubricant, and slowly pushed in the two fingers. Again, they went in quite easily. Once two knuckles breached the ring of muscle, Francis repeated the pressing down motion.

“Ah!” Damian’s hands flew out and grabbed the edge of the exam table. 

“Damian, d- does it hurt?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

Never.

“Please don’t stop.”

And so Francis persisted.

Chapter Text

Frankie’s fingers are inside of me and my heart hurts and I’m going to fall apart. He’s finally here and touching me and it’s just all too much, too intense. Pressure builds as he moves his fingers, pressing down again and again and again as stars burst behind my eyes. I know I’m whimpering but I can’t stop; I wish I could hold my mouth shut to keep back these desperate noises, but I need both of my hands to anchor me to the exam table, lest I make a mistake and spin around and confront him with an option that he’s not ready for, and face his rejection once again.

If he sees my arousal, he might run away again, and I don’t know if I could survive that.

I’m hooked on his fingers and caught off guard when a rough hand yanks down my pants so they’re wrapped around my ankles, and my whole body rocks forward with the strength of it, forced to grind on the edge of the table. Trapped now, I feel a rough hand pull a cheek to the side, further than before, and the stretch is unbearably good. 

The better to see you with, my dear.

He presses again, faster now, and I’m losing myself in it, my voice oozing out to the tempo, and it is so, so hard to hold back. I can feel his knuckles breech my opening as he goes in further, his two fingers bottoming out, and as he curls them once again, my thighs spread in shock.

Fuck.

I’d been so careful, getting ready quickly before he came back to the room, my pants down to my knees and cock carefully concealed, but there’s no accounting for the body’s reflex when pleasure is applied to it. We’re all just twitching meat.

I hate that he can do this to me, but I love it even more.

I’m exposed like this, nothing concealed (physically, of course), laid bare to his eyes and his touch, twitching like a slaughtered deer at every sweep of his fingers inside of me, and cold air rushes in and curls around my cock. A shiver builds between my shoulder blades, but is immediately soothed by hot breath.

Hot… breath?

What-

Chapter Text

Moaning and squelches filled the small, bright room, but the good doctor couldn’t hear them. Francis couldn’t hear anything because Francis wasn’t home anymore. Someone else had pushed Damian’s pants to the ground, someone else spread his cheeks further for better access, someone else was inside of his body right now, swirling the lube around and making the entire area glisten. This someone else was enraptured by the sounds, lost in the rhythm and feeling of wet fire.

I want to touch more.

These fucking gloves!

In frustration, rough fingers pressed down too hard and a pained moan erupted from the smaller man, whose thighs spread lasciviously as though petals around the center of a flower waiting for fertilization. Finally, the someone else sitting behind him could see his arousal, see the physical proof that the smaller man did, in fact, enjoy what was being done to him, and that’s when the someone else reached the point of no return.

Francis leaned in closer to examine the proof, and watched as lewd liquid leaked from the head of a painfully engorged cock. Each thrust of Francis’ fingers pushed Damian’s hips forward, and liquid dripped down from his cock and dribbled down the front of the table, landing at the step stool at the bottom.

I want to taste.

Saliva ran thick down Francis’ throat, his mouth watering, and he wanted nothing more in this world than to taste the fluid, swallow it down deep and hold it forever inside of himself. His mouth was too close, his face too close, and he smelled the sex and musk of the man in front of him, mixed with cinnamon.

Damian must bathe in it.

Francis wanted to drink that water, sup of Damian’s tea.

His fingers continued and Damian was rightly mewling, small whimpering sounds pressed out of him in a hypnotizing rhythm. Francis’ free hand released his bruising grip on the pale cheek and reached down, the flat pad of his gloved finger lightly touching the tip, finally claiming the source of moisture.

Chapter Text

Knowing he is so close to me, finally; knowing he is the one doing these things to me, finally; feeling his fingers inside of me; finally; it’s already too much. And then when my thighs spread helplessly and the pressure constricting my dick is released and I feel his breath on me...

What am I supposed to do? And then he...

He touches me, and I come undone. I’m forced over that precipice.

My body seizes, and blackness envelops me.

Ba-thump. Ba-thump. Ba-thump. 

Blood pounds in my ears as I come back to consciousness. I check in with my body: I’m in the same position, and cold sweat makes the skin of my back under the sweater feel tacky. It’s empty inside of me; he must’ve taken his fingers away. My legs feel weak and I’m not sure how I’m still holding myself up.

The pounding in my ears ebbs, and something else replaces it. Is that… lips and fluid and swallowing? It can’t be. I push up from the exam table on shaky arms, look over my shoulder, and-

Dr. Francis Moore is quite the picture, sitting there on his little rolly chair, eyes closed, eating my cum out of a gloved hand, looking rapturous and delirious and so far outside of himself, the other hand palming himself through his wet jeans. My dick twitches painfully at the sight.

Down, boy.

The paper must’ve crinkled when I moved, because his eyes pop open. He looks up at me and I can see guilt drowning in the darkness there, and he pulls the large hand away from his mouth. I’m smeared all over his lips, even a little on his nose. The buzzing fluorescent lights above us shine off of his strong jaw and I see there, too, he’s spread me in his hunger.

“I’m- I’m sorry, I-” he starts, and my heart hurts. He’s just too cute, too lovable, too easily devoted to.

It's so easy to devote your entire life to a man like this.

“How do I taste, Frankie?”

Chapter Text

“Come here, Frankie.” It was a gentle command, a hopeful request directed behind a scarred shoulder at the enraptured man sitting on the stool.

His brain wasn’t working right, his body aroused past the point of sanity, and so what else could he do when Damian called him?

Francis couldn’t deny him a third time.

So, of course, he surrendered. Francis stood to his full height, took the single step separating their bodies, and crushed Damian’s back against his chest.

The smaller man pleaded: “Take off my sweater.”

And so he did that too, hurriedly working his hands up under the soft grey knit fabric and yanking it over a head of tousled blond hair. Finally his prey was naked (except for the pants trapping his ankles), and his muscled body glowed in the sterile light. 

There on his arm was the scar where Francis stitched him up; there, low on his neck where collar bone soared up to meet muscle: a bite, fully healed but more pink that the skin around it.

I did this. I marked him.

Francis raised a finger to touch it, but ruined gloves barred skin to skin contact. He ripped both gloves off, shredding them, throwing the sticky shreds behind his shoulder and smoothed his palms over Damian’s skin. He reached one arm around and wrapped Damian’s shoulder to his chest and held him tight, held him close. The other hand wrapped lower, gliding over hip bones and taut abs to hold just above his pelvis, crushing Damian’s ass into Francis’ hard cock through his ruined jeans.

They slotted together perfectly, as if made for each other.

Francis ground into the cleft of the beautiful ass pressed against his cock, and Damian pushed back, rubbing himself against a leaking bulge, his delicate skin chaffing on rough jeans. Damian’s arm snaked back, fisting in Francis’ hair, and dragged mouth to neck. 

Francis didn’t need more of an invitation, and, rutting against Damian, he laved at the spot, trying desperately not to bite; trying desperately to hold onto his last reserves of willpower.

“Harder,” Damian rasped, and that was it. Francis had nothing left.

He bit down and slammed Damian’s entire body onto the exam table with his own, squeezing the air out of Damian’s lungs, the good doctor’s body blanketing him in unbearable pressure. Francis’ hips pistoned of their own accord, and Damian’s pale hands once again flew out, searching for purchase on the smooth table with smooth edges, and not finding much to hold onto. Crunching paper and moans echoed in the small room as the two men fell to madness.

“Fuck me,” came breathless gasps. “Please, Frankie, fuck me.”

“Damian,” came a grunt in reply against a pale neck. Teeth bit down harder as a free hand reached down between their two bodies and desperately tore at the bastardly zipper there.

A door slammed in the distance, and both men froze.

Chapter Text

Monday morning again, and somehow this time I've slept past my alarm. Fucking goddammit shitfaced motherfucker…

My head flops back against the pillow and somehow even though I've only been awake for not even thirty seconds, I'm already fucking over this day.

After Saturday afternoon, I couldn’t fucking sleep Saturday night. So last night I’d taken a little something to help me get there, and apparently it helped too much.

Saturday afternoon...

He’d frozen, pulled his body off of me leaving me cold, yanked my pants up, threw my sweater at my head, zipped himself up, pulled me out of the room, pushed me out of the lobby, the whole time cold lube rubbing between my cheeks in a most gross way, the whole time him refusing to look at me, his eyes on the ground. I could see the little sad wheels of his brain twirling their guilt pirouettes, and it pissed me off. I fucking hate when he does that.

“Frankie, stop,” I had said, reaching a hand out and placing it on his shoulder. 

A hand he had then slapped away. It was then that I saw the tears burning down his cheeks. But maybe that was the rain. It was still raining outside. It was really cold.

He turned to get into his car that was parked right next to mine.

“You can’t just fucking leave,” I said, buuuuut then he fucking did. That bastard. The wheels of his car spun on the wet asphalt, and then he was down the road and behind a copse of trees and I couldn't see him anymore. 

I don’t know what the fuck that door slamming was, but no one else was out there, no other cars were parked, no other lights were on in the hospital. Maybe a window somewhere was open and the wind slammed the door closed. I don’t know and I don’t give a fuck. 

He left me. Again. 

How many times will it take for him to leave and me to stop going back? How many times is he going to push me away and I'm going to stick around? I am so devoted to him, I have been for decades, and he’s just… what? Lived his shitty little life and been fine ?

A memory, a ghost comes back to me, and ringing in my ears not for the first time I hear “That’s the most romantic thing I've ever heard.”  

He wouldn’t want me to give up. I wouldn’t want me to give up. Not when I'm so close and I just know that if I keep giving Frankie the choice, he’ll finally take it. And maybe this time I'll be able to look him in the face while he does.

Newly motivated, I slide out from between the silky sheets of my very expensive bed and plop on the floor like a babe birthed from Cher’s womb. 

My routine begins: stand up, go to the bathroom, shower, put in my contacts, moisturize, hair nonsense, clothes, blah blah blah. In my tiredness, I almost pack my personal laptop, the one without a Fraggle logo on it, the one that no one important can know exists, and slap my forehead. I almost ruined everything. 

I've got to pay attention.

I take a little extra time on the coffee that morning, brewing it stronger and longer. I know some people say that longer only makes it more bitter, but I need it to punch me in the face.

Consensually, of course.

Wrapped in a stylish coat, blah blah blah, in the elevator down to the basement garage, getting in my car, blah blah blah, arriving at the site, etc yadda yadda yadda. The plaque on the wall outside of our lab is suspiciously missing, and I insert a fresh one that I grabbed from my trunk before I walked in. Darcy likes throwing them out at the end of the work week. Beware MOther's WoMB stares out at me from the bronze metal. Beautiful.

I unlock the door and step into the blinding chrome of the lab, the WoMB (the Wonderful Machine that Beeps) beeping out things per usual, results of tests running all along the walls of displays. Then I see Darcy sitting there, working away as hard as usual, today wrapped in her classic dark-hued discount designer ensemble. I know it kills her to not be able to drench herself in the real stuff the way she could at corporate headquarters, but still; she looks stunning, like Azrael on the doorstep of an unbaptized babe. And is that… red lipstick I see?

“Oh ho ho, Darcy Darling! All dressed up for a date with your holy girlfriend?” 

The first time I saw Gabrielle McCullough was at that eventful church potluck almost a month ago, and I recognized her immediately from the brief glimpse of Darcy’s laptop. In the weeks since then, I have teased her mercilessly about it. Some of my favorite past teases include:

“Does she taste like angel dust?”

“Shut up, Dickface.”

“Does she make you see god?”

“I will report you to HR.”

“If only I had a girlfriend who showed me the light .”

“It’s my understanding that you did, and then her husband punched you the fuck out.” A pause, and then: “Asshole.” 

God, I love her.

In any other office environment, these sorts of interactions would be grounds for discipline, and even dismissal. Technically, I am her boss. Mostly. Sort of. But things between us aren’t so simple, so cut and dry. I didn’t actually meet her at an interview for my project, or at one of the many events and conferences Fraggle puts on. In truth, I happened to run into her a few years ago at a… volunteer project I was volun-told to participate in by our corporate overlords that turned out to be a lot more fun than I'd originally anticipated. 

Darcy doesn’t spare me a glance as I slide into the spot next to her and pull out my Official Fraggle Employee Laptop (complete with free monitoring and a complete lack of privacy).

“Corporate called again today. They still want us to bring on at least a couple more people for the project. They say it’s not going fast enough. Again.”

I freeze. I do not need more oversight from the higher ups, and when more people are involved, Fraggle has company protocol that forces you to spend your free time together on trust building exercises and other pointless bullshit. I need my free time. I'm betting Darcy does, too, if the hickey on her neck is any indication.

I lean in close and whisper under my breath, “You missed a spot, Darcy Darling.” I tap the spot on my neck that corresponds to the place on her neck where I can see her amorous girlfriend left a reminder of their time together.

Her brow furrows, and she is decidedly not embarrassed. It’s actually quite difficult to embarrass her, which is what makes teasing her so fun. 

“Shit-fuck. I didn’t bring any extra concealer today. Goddammit, I thought I got them all.”

“Them all ?!” I guffaw, a hand over my mouth. “Darcy, I just remembered,” I'm loud now. “Can you help me carry a box in? It’s too heavy and my arms are tired from carrying the weight of this project.”

“Go fuck yourself,” she says, but I can see the twinkle in her eye. We make our way out to the parking lot, walking past the huge room with the guys and their big diggers and construction equipment. It’s way too loud in there, and I smile and wave at any of them who make eye contact with me. They do a good job, and as the mostly-leader of the project, I need them to like me. People are a lot friendlier here than I'm used to, and adjusting my behavior to match that has been interesting.

Sitting in my car with the heavily tinted windows, I hand her my emergency go-bag. She roots around for a little bit and finally finds the Fenty Beauty concealer in shade #480.

“You know, Damian,” she says as she applies it expertly in the mirror of the passenger seat sun shade, “you should be careful. Doing thoughtful things is a great way to make you look like you have a heart.”

“Me? Have a heart? Please,” I say, but her words warm me regardless. This is our relationship broken down to the bare essentials: I am the puckish asshole boss, and she is the long-suffering smart-ass assistant-coworker. Both vital to the operation; both vital to each other. We have each other's backs, and regardless of how it might look to outsiders, this whole thing works for us. I wouldn’t want anyone else with me on this project.

Darcy starts cracking up next to me, almost smudging her application.

“What’s so funny now?” and can feel my eyes crinkling in amusement. I quickly smooth them. I can’t get wrinkles.

“You don’t get it?”

I roll my eyes now. “Get what?”

“Damian Glass having a heart? A heart of Glass ?” She breaks into raucous laughter, a rarity for her, but I can see the effect this new relationship is having on her. Maybe she’s even falling in love! That will be fun to pester her about.

“Oh, come on. And what? Glass is fragile. Will my heart shatter? I'm not so sensitive. So your joke-alogy (joke analogy) doesn’t work. And also this topic is stupid.” My points are solid, but Darcy is still laughing, and now little tears are threatening to spill from her eyes. “I said -”

“Damian,” she finally manages to get out, interrupting me. “You’re the most sensitive person I know.”

I roll my eyes again so vigorously that my optic nerves protest and stars fill my vision. You see what being thoughtful gets you? Why do I even try?

Chapter Text

After what had happened at the hospital, Damian was, of course, all Francis could think about. Sleepless nights on the cold leather couch in his office (he wasn’t allowed back into his marriage bed until he touched his marriage partner and every time he let her close he felt maggots crawling up his vertebrae one by one, and he can’t go through with it), a garbage bin under his desk quickly filling up with tissue as he worked to relieve the pressure late at night after he was certain that the kids and the traitor were asleep. Down came the wooden box with the false bottom, and only after taking care of himself using the ruined red shirt was he able to sleep for a few hours.

Brushing his teeth in the morning, when the bristles rubbed against his tongue, he grew painfully aroused remembering the feel of Damian’s fluid in his mouth. There went another tissue. 

Pulling on latex gloves before administering a flu shot to a patient resulted in another tissue.

He tried throwing himself into cleaning out the garage so his body was too tired to let his mind ruminate on things he could never have, but then he caught a view of his motorcycle under the blue tarp in the corner. Yet another tissue spent.

Every facet of his life, Damian had seeped into. The church, the grocery store, his office, his work. He couldn’t turn anywhere, go anywhere without traces of Damian Glass blurring his vision and heating his body. Francis wasn’t a teenager anymore, decades removed from the less-than halcyon days of his youth when his hormones were a curse and he wished for nothing more than relief from the all-consuming desire to take something that would ruin the life of the one person he wanted to protect most. The descending libido had been a function of age, he believed, regardless of his medical school education telling him otherwise. I’m different, he decided. I’m not depressed. This is normal.  

It was unfortunate for him that the first thing to spark his desire at all since the early years of his and Julie’s relationship was a man he couldn’t avoid and couldn’t stop wanting to pin down. He didn’t feel sorry for himself, however. Regardless of how miserable his life actually was, he felt he deserved all of it, and more, and so living with the guilt and shame were to him akin to pulling on a well-worn cloak with many mysterious stains and hints of cinnamon and fire soaked around the collar.

And so his life continued. He went to work (that’s where I touched him), he went to church (that’s where I touched him), and he spent most of his time at home in his office alone (that’s where I almost touched him and I wish I didn’t want it but I wish I touched him, I wish it so badly it hurts) . Family meals were mostly silent, and his children started spending more and more time at Mrs. & Mr. Gonzalez’ house. The only quality time he had with them was a couple hours in the evening during the week when he helped George and William with homework and projects. 

Their grandparents loved seeing the two kids, of course, and Francis felt an easing of his soul since he’d started talking to them more. The topics were still surface level, but that didn’t matter; hearing his parents’ voices were enough. 

And everywhere, everything reeked of Damian Glass.

The man himself, however, was notably absent. No phone calls, no texts beckoning him, no happenstance run-ins at anywhere he’d encountered him before. He half expected the demon to appear at Sunday service, but maybe after the fiasco at the potluck Damian had learned his lesson about turning up at places he wasn’t wanted.

Well, it seemed the only person who truly didn’t want him around, who had been publicly hostile towards him, was good ole reliable Dr. Francis Moore. Damian had charmed (and in at least one confirmed instance, charmed the pants off ) everyone he’d met in town. If Francis thought about it much, something about it felt… off. But he tried very hard not to think of Damian in an conscious, tangible way, and so his subconscious took over the task. 

Eventually, the silence from Damian was so absolute, the lack of appearances so deafening, that Francis began to send out feelers of information about him. 

It was hard work. People seemed to trust the good doctor a little bit less, seemed a little wary around him even, once Damian was brought up in the conversation. Francis had never been good at these things, at the social politics and interplay between sharing just enough to get what you wanted. On the other hand, despite his insistence to the contrary, despite his lack of friends, Alex had seemed to have the knack for it. Francis almost wished he were here now to help, but that felt like a kind of betrayal, and so he shut that door again in his mind; a door he had learned to shut over and over and over again until it was a reflex, because the weight of Alex’s presence in his soul was too much to bear most days, and the weight of his absence was something Francis learned to live with a long time ago.

I don’t understand. He was everywhere and now he’s nowhere. 

Francis didn’t know how to feel about it. He wasn’t sure if he should be ashamed because of his unethical conduct during Damian’s exam, he wasn’t sure if Damian was avoiding him, and one thing he overheard at Jolene’s diner on one of his morning blueberry muffin runs was that the big Fraggle construction project was at a standstill. 

That’s when his unnameable, intangible feeling clarified into something akin to worry.

He walked back to his car after hearing that, looked around to make sure no one was paying attention to him, and pulled out his phone to text the number he’d saved under ‘Z’, all the way at the bottom of his contacts list. So many times he’d been tempted to block Damian’s number and delete it from his phone, but he couldn’t bear it, just in case. Just in case what? He’d ask himself, but he never had an answer. Just in case.

 His thumbs moved to write something, but then paused. Francis had no idea what to say. His hands trembled slightly and he froze, anxiety building in his stomach.

Hey. 

No, that’s too casual.

How are you? 

Too invasive.

Where are you? 

What the hell, that’s too weird, too demanding. He doesn’t owe me anything.

He settled on the message, his thumbs shaking a little, backtracking several times to correct typos, and hit send before he could think it all the way through and stop himself. 

Francis stared at his phone for a moment, then shook his head, feeling like an idiot. Of course Damian wasn’t going to respond immediately. He had a demanding job, he’s busy, he’s occupied, probably fucking someone else’s wife and ruining their life.

Jealousy flared unbidden low in Francis’ stomach, and it was all he could do to suppress the growl that threatened to burst from his chest. The uncomfortable, unfamiliar feeling was big and toxic and made him choke. He’d figured it out by now, of course. He wasn’t jealous of Damian, he wasn’t protective of his wife or marriage; he was jealous of Julie, of her ability to take what he wanted, to kiss Damian.

Sitting there in his car, the morning sun shining down on the hood and warming the interior, birds chirping outside on this normal, ordinary, painfully average day, all he could think about was Damian’s lips and wanting to kiss them. A set of full lips pinker than the oh so pale skin of a smooth face; smirking lips with a hint of canine exposed; the softness and slippery wetness from when Francis had smothered them, stifled them when fucking the man they belonged to from behind.

Everything was too much. It was too hot, and the walls of the car pressed in close. 

A loud beep beep beep pulled him from the precipice of an anxiety attack. He looked at his phone, and was struck with vertigo.

FRGGL ERROR #865: We're sorry; you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service.

His thumb hit dial instinctively. Holding the phone up to his ear, he heard, “We're sorry; you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again,” and then loud, hideous beeping.

What was going on? Where was Damian Glass?

Chapter Text

Finally, the key turns in the lock and I throw it open. Dark and cold pour out of the gaping mouth and wrap around me.

OH my fucking god. I slam my apartment door shut as loudly as possible. It rattles in the frame and echoes in the sterility of my nearly-empty chambers and it feels clean and almost feels like home; or at least a facsimile of comfort.

“Mr. Glass, you’re the head of the Special Projects division, but you’re also an employee of this company.”

“Yes, Syphus, but-”

“And as an employee, Mr. Glass, when you are given a direct order, it must be carried out… directly.”

“I completely understand, but if you’d just listen-”

“So, I’m curious as to why you haven’t expanded your team on the Nusquam Locus Project.”

Damian took a long sip of water, dousing the rage in his chest and composing himself.

“There are three factors at play: project expenses, personnel confidence, and issues of local culture.”

A pause, and then: “I’m listening.”

“I’m listening,” I mock, remembering the meeting as I pour myself a tall glass of ridiculously expensive scotch and loosen my tie, suitcase abandoned in the foyer. Fucking Syphus Lee: the best and most infuriating supervisor I’ve ever had. Why am I doomed to be surrounded by such competent and rage-inducing individuals?

In the end, I managed to convince him to stop demanding we expand on-site personnel from Fraggle. It’s more expensive, we (I) can’t trust new people, and the small town had only just accepted me and Darcy; they’re too backwards and insular to accept any more big city folk with dreams and fancy tech.

It’s mostly all lies, of course; if anything, my experiences in Nowhere have challenged my own long-held biases and notions about what small towners are capable of.

But Syphus still has his negative opinions, and it was easy to use those against him. Unfortunately, I had to promise him that I’ll work faster, which means less time for my… personal projects, and which also means the clock is ticking down.

I’ll be leaving Georgia soon, or at least soon-ish (soon-adjacent? ), and if Frankie isn’t with me on that plane out of here, this will all have been worthless.

Less than worthless. The greatest failure of my life.

And also completely unacceptable.

Standing in the dark kitchen next to the drink tray, I can feel that the clothes I wore on the plane are rumpled, but I’m beyond caring at the moment. I’m sure my hair is also tousled and my eyes are red and I can feel a stress pimple coming in on my cheek. 

Who gives a fuck. Let me be ugly in the privacy of my own home. 

My shoes are still on my feet as I walk down the short marble stairs and across the white carpet in the living room. The black couch pulls me into her embrace as I slide into her, taking care not to spill a single drop of scotch. The front of my body presses completely to the couch, my left arm hanging off the side holding the drink. I try to sip it at this angle, but-

“Shit.”

Welp. It spilled after all. I push myself up on my elbows and down the liquid in half a second. It burns in the best way. I stretch to set the empty cup on the coffee table, and roll onto my back dramatically, an arm thrown over my eyes.

Ow. What the-

I dig out the offending object: one phone, Fraggle brand (of course), in perfect condition, screen completely black.

It’s off, obviously. There’s no point in having it on when I’m at Fraggle headquarters; they have an electronic array set up to disrupt devices, so if anyone from outside the company called me (which they wouldn’t; that’s what Darcy’s for), they’d get the classic FRGGL error code that basically means fuck off, dickhead. We’re working here.

The Monday after things with Frankie… imploded, when Darcy told me corporate had called again, I didn’t think much of it. I figured Darcy would be enough of a turn-off for them that they’d give up. But two days later, when Darcy’s mouth made a tight line and her fingers gripped her company-issued phone so tightly that I could see the tendons in her knuckles shifting, I knew it was different. 

“---Ms. C’Agne. Immediately,” Damian could barely make out the words, but what little he could decipher told him all he needed to know: Syphus was angry, and Damian would have to handle it.

“Of course, Director. I’ll tell him.” She held the phone to her head for another moment, nodded, then lowered it to the shiny tabletop in MOther's WoMB. The call had ended.

Damian crinkled his eyes and tried to play it off.

“Soooo~” his voice slid up and down, a nervous grin plastered to his face. “Syphus, huh? Big old Syph-Man? How’s he doing?”

Darcy folded her arms on the table and slowly lowered her head into them.

“Oh! That great, huh?” Damian knocked her shoulder with his.

Darcy mumbled something but Damian couldn't make it out.

“What was that, Darcy Darling? Something about me being the most handsome-”

“Damian!” she jerked her head up finally, sending a death glare at her compatriot. “Shut up! And listen, for once in your goddamn life!”

He shrank back, his head tilted in the air as if he would listen but wouldn’t necessarily do what she wanted.

“You have to go back to headquarters. And you have to go immediately.”

“Dar-”

“Stop! You have to go. Syphus is pissed off, and I don’t understand why you don’t want to add members to our team, but if you’re sure that’s what you want, then you have to convince him.”

All-told, it had taken over two weeks to convince Director Suck-Ass Lee to let their operation continue as it had been. Two weeks of coordinating data back and forth with Darcy through the Fraggle secure network set up in Nowhere. Two weeks of quarantine at the Fraggle campus, unable to access the outside world (except through the memes Darcy sent in her Official Operation Emails). Two weeks of incredibly boring, lonely nights staring at the covert pictures of Frankie I’d taken on my phone. Two weeks of jerking off to the video of me and that blonde haired bitch, getting off on the memory of being inside where Frankie had been inside, making someone cum that Frankie had made cum. 

Two. Fucking. Weeks. Well, technically, two weeks and three days. Because today is Saturday, and tonight is Saturday night, and all I want to do is pass out immediately and ugly-ely in my travel clothes on this couch with the help of the amber liquid burning its way through my stomach. 

But nooooo, I can’t even do that, because the fucking brick in my pocket refuses to let me have even one nice thing for myself.

I tap the phone on the carpet, debating leaving it off, debating throwing it against the wall and watching it shatter and taking a well-deserved nap.

But instead, I make the responsible (ew) choice and turn it on. Darcy would want me to tell her I’ve landed, after all. Ugh.

Notifications pop up, overloading the screen, but it’s all bullshit I easily swipe away. All bullshit, except for two text messages that keep my attention: two messages from two different numbers.

The first: “Are you okay?”

And the second: “I hope you like your present.”

There’s a knock on the door, and I jump.

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

Chapter Text

Things continued on in Francis’ life. They continued on unbearably. They continued on unrelentingly.

It was a Friday night when he went to see Pastor Gabrielle at the church. They’d just seen each other the day before for a private meeting, but Francis had this itch under his skin that he couldn’t scratch that her therapeutic advice could only quell (if only for a short while). 

No.

That wasn’t true. None of that was true.

The truth was that Francis had been watching things very closely the last couple of weeks, and he’d noticed that Damian’s coworker and “not friend” (according to the woman herself) had been coming and going with some regularity, never attending service but popping in and out of the pastor’s office when most other people weren’t at the church.

Since Francis spent so much fucking time there as of late (and for the past six weeks), he’d noticed these appearances.

She was his only lead on Damian. So he had to ask.

He caught her as she was leaving Pastor Gabrielle’s office. She turned the corner, not paying attention, adjusting the black skirt on her monochrome ensemble and swiping the corner of her mouth where a little bit of red lipstick had smeared.

“Miss?” Francis stepped out into the hallway from the dark classroom he was standing in.

She jumped, of course.

“Fuck!” She stepped back, holding her chest. “Who the fuck- You.”

Francis’s stomach turned under her intense gaze, the loose smile on her face a moment ago wiped clean off, nothing left but a firm line of lips and a glare.

“Y-yes, hello, um, good evening,” Francis stuttered, his drawl coming thick with his discomfort.

“What do you want?” Her arms were crossed now, her entire stance screaming at him to FUCK OFF OR ELSE.  

“I… well.” Francis froze, not sure how to proceed.

“Yes?” It was a question, but it came out like a demand. Francis could only imagine what the atmosphere was like at the job site with Damian’s precocious attitude and this woman’s severe lack of warmth.

Insanity, probably.

Am I going insane?

“I heard that the, uh… internet project is on hold?”

The woman in black just stared at him, and cold sweat broke out across his shoulder blades.

“Um, and I haven’t really seen… uh. Mr. Glass around. And, ha,” Francis chuckled here to lighten the mood but it didn’t have that effect, and he was left feeling even more awkward. “He was everywhere, it seems, but now he’s nowhere.”

The side of her mouth quirked up in a confused smirk, and her brow furrowed.

“I don’t know what you’re asking, Doctor .” She took a step forward. “Are you concerned he’s got some plan cooked up to steal your wife or something? Are you excited at the prospect of him permanently staying away? Because let me tell you something, dick,” she reached him now, and though her head only reached the middle of his chest, he felt all her power punctuating her words, along with the finger she jabbed into his sternum. “If you’re hoping he’s gone for good, you’re going to be sorely disappointed. He’s coming back tomorrow night, and he’ll be back into work on Monday, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

The pressure of her finger forced Francis to take a step back.

“And if you ever lay a hand on him again, I will bring the full force of our corporate lawyers against you, and you will never practice medicine again, and we will take every penny  you have.”

“O-of course,” Francis stammered. “I’m sorry, I-”

“Yeah, you should be fucking sorry.” She took a step back, adjusted the purse hanging from her shoulder, and tilted her nose up at the good doctor. “He’s a good person, and just cuz he made a bad choice doesn’t mean you get to lay your hands on him.” She pushed past him, her pointy shoulder digging into his muscled arm as she passed. “If you don’t believe me, Fraggle ‘Camp Group Oakland’ and you’ll see what I mean.” She stopped a final time, and threw over her shoulder: “ Dick.”

Chapter Text

So that’s exactly what he did when he got home. He snuck into his office, went to www.fraggle.com on his computer, typed ‘Camp Group Oakland’, and hit enter.

Francis wasn’t very familiar with California, but he knew that Oakland was famous for gangs, poverty, and shitty… uh, disadvantaged schools. And it looked like this ‘Camp Group’ project was developed to combat all three of those things. It was an intensive summer school program designed to teach at-risk youth a marketable skill that could positively impact their future. There were shop classes, life skills classes, classes regarding trade and professional development, and there was a newer class that taught coding skills. 

Coding? That’s like what Damian does, right?

Francis clicked on that subheader, and it took him to a page that was better designed than any of the other website pages. A video at the top automatically started playing, and a smiling older man with dark skin and kind eyes in a yellow t-shirt said:

“ Several years ago, the coding program was developed as a pilot test, but it has become one of the most successful programs we offer here at Camp Group!”  

The camera panned over to a group of teens of all races wearing bright yellow matching t-shirts and working on computers, laughing and smiling. As the camera continued it’s path over the room, Francis saw something that didn’t make any sense. He paused the video and scrolled back, and-

Yes. 

He saw correctly. 

Hanging on the back wall of the classroom was a large poster of a man in a white button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, wearing white shorts with a black belt and gold watch. It looked like one of those funny internet pictures ( a meme? ) that George had shown him. Except, the man standing in the poster was none other than Damian Glass, and the caption at the bottom said, “Do it to em.”

What the hell?

Francis pressed play, and the man in the video continued.

“The program started out small, but three years ago, thanks to a generous donation of time and funds from Fraggle Inc, we were able to restructure the program and get new equipment, and now every year we are able to reach more and more kids and teach them all about coding. Many of our program’s alumni have even gone on to have great success themselves, and have donated their own time and resources to the program.”

A new person appeared on the screen. It was a young woman, no more than twenty-five years old, with golden brown skin and tightly coiled black and teal hair done up in a large intricate braid atop her head, wearing a yellow blazer that matched the campers’ yellow t-shirts. At the bottom of the screen it said Kaneesha Allen, Program Coordinator: Coding. She spoke:

“When I first took over the coding program three years ago, I understood that it needed a deep overhaul of the way things were being done. The computers were ten years old, and as anyone who has owned any tech in the last decade knows, technology changes so quickly that ten years might as well be a hundred.” Kaneesha Allen laughed prettily at that, and Francis felt himself smiling with her, drawn in by her charisma. 

“I reached out to some of my contacts at Fraggle Inc and asked if they’d be able to donate anything to the program, and I was blown out of the water by their generosity. Many of our alumni have even found jobs there, some full time and some to pay for college. Fraggle sent equipment and a couple of their best people.”

The screen now showed a young man with kinky blonde hair, pale skin, and reddish eyes. The caption at the bottom said Marcus Wallace, Group Camp: Coding Alumni.

“Mr. Glass really changed everything for us. He taught us without making us feel dumb, which a lot of these traveling instructors do, I don’t know if it’s on purpose, but they do. But Dam- Uh, Mr. Glass wasn’t like that. He showed us that coding isn’t just for nerds-” a girl off-screen shouted an indignant, “Hey! Marcus, you play Pokemon! What do you mean nerd?!”  

“Uh, I mean,” Marcus continued, blushing, “he showed us that it can be fun, and that it’s not too hard to learn, and that if you figure it out, you can do some really cool stuff with it. I knew I wouldn’t be able to get scholarships to pay for college cuz my grades aren’t the best, but my mom’s been telling me since forever that I have to go, and thanks to the instruction I received from,” and here it was obvious the kid was reading from a card, “from Camp Group’s Coding Program, I won’t have to worry about paying for college.”

The video continued on like that for a while, and Dr. Francis Moore sat there in shock.

Nothing made any sense. 

Damian? Doing something selfless? Helping people? Helping kids ?

Was it possible that this was some kind of ruse? Some kind of elaborate trick? But the more Francis looked into it, the more concrete the entire thing became. There were websites the Camp Group kids had made going back several years, Youtube videos starring the kids with Damian Glass flitting around in the background, usually laughing or smiling with students, even a reddit page (page? group? ) of Camp Group memes, many of which featured Damian. 

Francis couldn’t take it anymore, and exited out of all of the open tabs, and turned off the monitor, too, for good measure. His pensive reflection in the black screen was overwhelming as well, and so Francis left the office and wandered his empty house, searching for clarity but finding none.

Chapter Text

“If you ever mention me in any of the promotional material for this,” Darcy seethed. “I-”

Kaneesha put a hand on her shoulder, and Darcy’s tirade ceased.

“Deedee, of course, if that’s what you want. But without any mention of you, it might seem a little…”

“What?” Darcy asked, crossing her arms.

“A little, well… white savior-y.”

At that moment, the white savior himself arrived on the scene, laughing and out of breath. 

“Goodness gracious, those kids are really excited about the poster they’re making,” Damian said, a genuine smile on his face.

“You look ridiculous, asshole.”

Damian turned his megawatt grin on her next. “Good to see you, too, Darcy Darling,” he teased.

“Augh!” she groaned in frustration. “Keesha, I don’t care how it looks. I’m not going to let my association with this little project of yours negatively impact the plans I have for my future and the circle of people I run in.”

“Oh, this again,” Damian sighed, then leaned his shoulder to touch Kaneesha’s as if they were co-conspirators. “Keesha… may I call you Keesha?”

“No, Damian,” she said, and leaned away.

“Of course, my apologies. Kaneesha, I am perfectly willing to shoulder the burden as the face of this massive successful undertaking the three of us have excelled at.” Here he gave a big bow.

“And what about Todd?” Darcy asked, checking her nails. They were perfect, as was every other part of her ensemble.

“What about him? The coward couldn’t get through two weeks of volunteering. He doesn’t deserve a spot in the promotional material, and I’m going to ask corporate if we can dock his pay when I get back,” Damian dismissed.

“Damian, that’s not entirely fair,” Kaneesha started, her melodic voice chastising and yet as charismatic as ever, like Mary Poppins. “Todd did his best. Most volunteers with your guys’ background aren’t often able to contribute for as long as you have.”

“And what background is that?” Damian asked innocently, eyes wide.

“Um, well…” Kaneesha looked uncomfortable.

“Ha, just teasing. Rich Ivy League white boys, right? With two parents who loved them very much and tucked them into bed each night with a story, and nothing bad ever happened to them?” Damian’s voice was lilting, but his face darkened and his eyes looked like he was seeing somewhere else.

“No, not at all, that’s not what-” 

“Not to worry! I’m sorry for being so crass. Of course someone like that can’t relate to these kids. Oh, what’s that?” Damian cupped his ear as if listening to something. “Ah! I believe Marky Mark is calling to me. Toodle-oo.” 

Damian flounced down the hallway, ignoring Kaneesha’s bewildered expression, and missing Darcy’s appreciative, cynical half-smile.

“Deedee, are you sure you wanna accept the job offer from his company? He seems like a tall glass of trouble,” Kaneesha quietly questioned her friend.

“It’s true, he’s absolutely ridiculous,” Darcy sighed. “But he’s told me a little about this big project he’s trying to get off the ground over at Fraggle, and working on that could really boost my social standing.”

“And help a lot of people, maybe?” 

“Yeah, absolutely, that, too. But it’s nice to worry about myself first for once. And there’s just something about him, Keesha.”

“Some would call it sociopathy.”

“Keesha!” Darcy laughed, playfully hitting her friend on the arm and cracking a rare smile. “We’ll see.”

Chapter Text

Saturday night. Julie was out, said she had to spend time with “the girls,” said she couldn’t be around him when he was like this. Like what? He’d wanted to ask, but he didn’t have the emotional capacity or energy to deal with the big fight that would spark. He wanted her to leave, and she left, and that was a blessing.

The kids were with their grandparents for the weekend, and Francis was completely alone in the big cold house. When Julie wasn’t there, Francis would turn off the AC or the heat, depending on the season, because when it ran, even after all these years, it sparked his anxiety. He half expected his father to come thundering down the hallway, searching for whoever was responsible for wasting his money, regardless of how hot or cold it was, how numb his sons’ fingers were, how small and fragile their bodies were.

None of that had mattered to Geoff Moore, and June Moore certainly hadn’t protected her children from his wrath, either.

Francis shook his head of old ghosts, and climbed the long staircase to the second floor, his feet slipping along the wood into his bedroom. He stood in front of the closet, thoughts rumbling around the inside of his skull like a thunderstorm in summer, hot and humid and loud, shaking everything in a ten mile radius.

He’d wear the black slacks, of course. And the black loafers. Or maybe dark blue ones?

Already he was frustrated. Julie usually told him what to wear, but she wasn’t here now, and she didn’t know what he was doing, and his world was a better place for that.

Again, small blessings.

Maybe a sweater? But he was perspiring already. So no undershirt? Yeah, that would be fine. He settled on a thin knit sweater in an olive green shade that Julie had told him complimented his “dark skin tone” (her words). He showered quickly, brushing mousse through his black curls to smooth them back, and pulled on the clothes. 

Francis looked in the closet mirror, and thought that maybe tonight he looked a little bit handsome. Maybe.

A date.

Huh?

You’re acting like this is a date.

No, I-

Shameless, Moore. You’re shameless.

Guilt and embarrassment flared up his chest and pinked his cheeks, and he shook his head to clear out the thoughts. If only he had something to calm his nerves, but he was going to drive and couldn’t risk having a drink before he left.

And so Francis took off, sober, and made his way up the dark highway. There were a few cars here and there, but on a Saturday night, most people were either home or out enjoying the company of loved ones, not traveling covertly to see someone who didn’t necessarily want to see them, and who didn’t even know they were going to have a visitor. 

He parked as he usually did (yes, usually; you’ve been here too many times before, Moore; when will you learn? ) and passed through the lobby to the elevators. The elevator dinged and Francis was staring at his phone in his hand, so he didn’t notice the person coming out of the elevator until they ran into him. Francis was knocked to the side, and turned to apologize, but the person was already walking away; all he could see was a baseball cap pulled low over wavy brown hair, a pale neck, slim build, and hands shoved into the pockets of the dark grey windbreaker the stranger was wearing. All these details flicked in and out of Francis’ mind because as soon as he was in the elevator and it began rising to the thirteenth floor, all he could focus on was the pounding of blood in his ears, how cold his hands were, and the feeling that he was doing something wrong.

The elevator buoyed upward regardless, and when it reached the right floor, he stepped out.

Chapter Text

In a bit of irony, the man who opened the door was much more disheveled and worn out than the man who he opened the door to.

Damian cocked his head in confusion, then closed the door slowly, suspicion and disbelief written into his face.

Francis’ heart beat rapidly as the door jerked open, and then slowed in confusion as it slowly shut again.

Both men stood on either side of the closed door, not really knowing what they were supposed to do.

Is this a dream?  Damian pondered, questioning his grip on reality.

What the hell??  Francis wondered, his mind filled with too much static for him to lock onto any one feeling and fall into self-consciousness or a spiral of shame, as he was so wont to do these days (and, if we’re being honest, for most of his entire life).

There was a shuffling from the other side of the door, and when Damian opened it again his rumpled trench coat and tie were nowhere to be found, the white button up donning his frame was expertly rolled above his toned forearms, and his hair was slightly more kempt than ten seconds before. 

Of course, the tie and trench were actually rolled into a ball and dropped onto the small table just inside the door, but the view to any visitors outside of the apartment was blocked, and so it was as if it had all disappeared.

Damian opened the door again, with swagger injected back into the way he held himself, suspicion written all over his face.

“Dr. Francis Moore! To what do I owe the pleasure of your… arrival?” Damian’s voice was melodic as always, but it also held a gruffness to it. He was tired, and wanted to sleep. His brain had been courting unconsciousness, and was about to seal the deal, until…

He was very, very tired.

“I…” Francis stood there unmoving, unsure of what to do.

"So…” Damian continued, also unsure of what to do. He wanted Francis here, of course he did, but did it have to be now ? “So, I heard you were worried about me.”

Francis’ stomach sank, sickness crawling up his esophagus.

“Who told you that?” he accused, all nerves and guilt and sour things.

Damian chuckled. “Why, you did. You sent me that text, didn’t you? And you showed up here, looking like… that . What would you have me think?”

“Oh,” Francis answered, a simple release of vowel with a relieved sigh on the end. 

Waiting for an elaboration on that guttural vowel, Damian stood there. And stood there. And finally got so tired of standing there that he made a move. It wasn’t a bold move or a very Damian Glass-esque move, but it was a move nonetheless.

“Okie dokie, well then, have a good night Mister Doctor Moore,” he said, shrugged his shoulders, and closed the door. He padded back to the black couch, slid into the cushions once again, and would’ve fallen asleep if not for the fact that he hadn’t heard Francis move away from the door.

You did this to yourself, Glass. Deal with it.

With a sigh, he rose once more, went to the door, and opened it. Of course, there Francis was, still standing there, looking as dour as ever. Dour and soft and vulnerable, and Damian just couldn’t resist him.

“Would you like a drink, Doc?”

Chapter Text

Francis followed Damian into the apartment like Orpheus walking into hell.

It was cold and dim, the only light coming from under the cabinets in the kitchen, just enough to show one where to put their feet, but not enough to see into all the dark corners. 

“Just a moment,” Damian said, and Francis stood in the foyer and watched as he padded softly into the living room across a sea of soft white, picked up an empty glass on the coffee table, and walked into the kitchen. The glass joined another that Damian upturned, and dark amber liquid, almost black in the low light, poured from a crystal decanter into both cups.

“...300 year old single malt scotch. Cost me a pretty penny.”

The first time he came to this sepulcher, Damian had offered him a drink, and he’d refused. After all this time, he was finally going to have a taste.

Francis was so enraptured watching Damian’s hands move in the low light that he didn't notice the rolled up trench coat and tie on the small table next to him, or the suitcase shoved off to the side.

The shorter man walked back to his guest and offered him his drink. Francis took his politely, sipping, his obsidian eyes following still as Damian walked back to the couch and sat down, feet on the carpet, and leaned over his knees, glass tucked into his hand. Finally Damian looked up and met his gaze, and he gestured for the man-shaped statue to come over.

Grinding into action, his joints finally remembered how to bend, and Francis followed, but not before pausing to take off his shoes.

“It’s such a shame… you’re getting mud on my carpet.”

Francis wouldn’t make that mistake again. He sat down opposite Damian on the loveseat that matched the black couch with blue steel edging, a coffee table separating them. Two white side tables, one on either side of the loveseat, and each with a lamp on top, balanced out his side and matched the length of the couch Damian was perched on. Unlike his first visit, the coffee table was not in disarray; there were no piles of papers or laptops out. In fact, the room felt more sterile than it had that time, less full of Damian. 

Just like his life had become after Damian disappeared. More sterile. Less full of life.

Outside, it began to rain, fat drops slapping the wall of windows in the living room, and Francis felt a little bit like he was coming home.

“Are you okay?” Francis asked, after swallowing a mouthful of oaky burn.

“You already asked me that,” Damian teased, then relented. “I’m okay. Fine, actually. Just had a few things to take care of.”

“Oh.” A pause, and then, “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Heat warmed Damian’s chest, and he smiled, looking away from Francis, almost unable to bear the way Francis made him feel. He gathered his courage, stood up, and walked around the coffee table.

“What are you doing?!” Francis leaned away, panic welling in his throat.

“I’m just turning on the light, Doc,” and he did, in fact, turn on one of the side table lamps. Francis squinted involuntarily, blinded for a moment by the brightness, and when he finished blinking, Damian was already seated once again on the couch opposite him.

But now Francis could see the tiredness in his eyes, the lines around his mouth, the weak flop of his usually immaculately styled hair. Francis saw these things, saw Damian’s fragility, and couldn’t hold himself back any longer. His heart hurt too much to allow his silence. He pushed forward.

“You don’t look fine, Da- … Glass.”

“You can call me Damian, Doc. It’s okay. In fact, I’d much prefer it to these mental gymnastics you’re putting yourself through.” Damian smirked and raised his glass in mock cheers.

“Da-mian,” came his name, pulled like slow taffy from Francis’ mouth in a quiet drawl.

“There ya go, Doc,” and Damian pretended like that wasn’t the thing he wanted most of all.

Francis’ eyes flicked up to meet Damian’s, and the fierceness with which he spoke next brought chills up Damian’s spine.

“I don’t like it when you call me that.”

“Well, Doc , you don’t like it when I call you what I want, so what would you prefer? Mister Doctor Moore? Francois? Frankfurt? That one, I suspect, is closer to the truth, based purely on personal experience, of course. Maybe-”

“I don’t much care for those either,” Francis admitted, spilling truth for the first time in a long time.

Damian was quiet for a moment, picking his words carefully.

“Why don’t you like it when I call you ‘Frankie’?”

Francis was very still, but Damian let him sit in his silence, having learned by now that he would speak when he was ready, once his thoughts were organized into something he could express in the most diplomatic way possible. Sitting there in Francis’ silence, Damian hated everyone who had ever twisted his love’s truth and shut him up so tightly that he was afraid of a single wrong word, a single wrong step.

How can a man who is so careful have so much rage?

Oh, that’s why.

Damian wished he could insert himself into those processes that silenced Francis, and finally, finally, bear his truth.

“I… only one other person called me that, and when you say it, it’s like spitting on his memory.” Francis’ hands clenched around the nearly empty glass, and he tossed back the rest of the brown liquid, trying to ground himself in the burn of it, but failing miserably.

His brother… his brother called him that. I had no idea he’d be so protective over something like that. What kind of man is he, so caught up in sentimentality and yet unwilling to take what he wants? 

I’m touched.

Damian swallowed the dregs of his (second) glass of scotch and thunked the empty vessel onto the coffee table. Moving so he couldn’t second guess himself, he leaned into the liquid courage boiling through his stomach and veins and stood, wobbling slightly, and made his way to Francis, sitting down next to him. The entire time, Francis sat there frozen, watching him with wide eyes, but he didn’t make a single move away from the tired man.

“What if I told you that's what I want?”

“Huh? If you want what ?” 

Damian smirked up at Francis, and Francis’ chest tightened, heat flooding his veins.

“I want to be close to you.”

Chapter Text

Francis’ eyes revealed the panic crawling up his soul.

“Is that really so hard to believe?” Damian asked, leaning back on the arm of the loveseat.

“You don’t know me.”

“Now, that’s not true at all. If anything, you’re the one who doesn’t know me.” Damian cocked an eye at him, waiting for a rebuttal, and getting none. “But I know you quite well.”

Francis was drowning in anticipation, but he didn’t know for what. Rain continued to thunk against the wall to wall windows, and sitting so closely to Damian allowed the scent of cinnamon and heat and something else to swirl around his head, confusing him. His cheeks flushed pink, either from the alcohol or the proximity to his personal kryptonite.

His voice was small and broken when he finally spoke: “Then who am I?”

Damian reached out and gently put a hand on his.

“You’re a man who loves deeply. You take responsibility, and you help people. You’ve raised two great kids. And,” Damian paused to chuckle, “you’re absolutely infuriating.”

Francis looked down at Damian’s smaller, pale hand covering his own larger, rougher one like he was afraid it would bite him, but that maybe that would be a sweeter death than he could hope for. If Damian actually believed the things he said about Francis, then he didn’t know Francis at all, but Francis was nonetheless touched.

“Would you like another drink?”

“...Okay.”

Damian stood, grabbing their empty cups and moving to the kitchen, out of Francis’ view. 

The good doctor looked across the white sea of carpet, past the black couch and through the dark windows where rain splashed down unrelentingly. He could see lights glowing in the city, tall buildings with little beacons coming out of rectangles along their sides that proved to him he wasn’t alone, and for the first time in a long time, he believed it.

I’m not alone.

Damian returned, and handed the overly full glass to his guest before resuming his spot very near to the good doctor.

“Hmm, this reminds me of when I went to your house and you offered me tap water,” he teased.

“Ha, well, it’s not my fault that Jules only buys smart home appliances,” Francis said, and Damian tensed at the mention of Mrs. Francis Moore.

I hate her.

“I’m… sorry,” Francis finally let out, after swallowing a few mouthfuls and clearing his throat. 

“Hmm? What for?” Damian asked, leaning back again, one arm draped easily over the arm of the love-seat, his legs crossed, the perfect picture of relaxation.

“Y-you said I take responsibility, but I don’t. I haven’t. Not for what I did to you.”

Damian’s eyes widened in surprise. “What you did to me?”

“How I… I f-forced you…” tears gathered at the corner of Francis’ eyes, threatening to spill over the edges, and he couldn’t continue. Damian laughed, and noted Francis’ look of horror, so he reached out and patted Francis’ shoulder in reassurance.

“No. No, Frankie. I wanted it.”

Francis was shocked, and for the first time didn't protest the name Damian used. A deep, dark part of him woke up, roaring at the association of that particular nickname with desire.

“You… wanted it?” he asked, in pain. 

With hope.

“Yeah, I wanted it,” Damian offered easily, and reached up to tuck an errant black curl around Francis’ ear. His hand lingered and traced the edge of Francis’ square jaw. “Ugh, you’re so handsome.” Damian pulled back, shaking his head, and moved to the other couch, putting the table between them.

Chapter Text

The line of skin along his jaw where Damian stroked him burned, and Francis covered it with his hand to soothe the fire. With Damian’s return to his original seat far from the good doctor, Francis also felt a cold vacuum where Damian had been seated next to him. 

Damian’s throat bobbed as he took another deep swallow from his glass.

“Who do you talk to, Frankie?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… when you’re dealing with difficult things, when you’ve had a shitty day, whatever… who do you talk to about that?”

“Um,” Francis eloquently elucidated. “I…”, and he realized that he didn’t have a way to finish that sentence.

The truth was, he didn't have anyone. Julie didn't enjoy hearing about things that troubled him, and had a way of spinning the conversation towards herself or in such a way that Francis ended up feeling worse than if he’d just kept his mouth shut. Pastor Gabrielle counseled him in matters of faith and ways he could better contribute to the church and the town. The other church dads were fun to hang out with at events or cheer on their kids together at school events, but it didn’t go any deeper than that. 

Certainty settled in Francis’ stomach like so many stones dropping to the bottom of a well.

“I don’t have anyone,” he admitted.

“What? No friends?” Damian, to his credit, sounded genuinely shocked.

“No,” Francis said, his face dark, his eyes downcast.

“I could be your friend.”

Francis’ head shot up. “No!”

“No? Hey, I can be a pretty good friend! Just ask Darcy.”

A friend? No, Francis didn’t want Damian to be his friend. The things he wanted from Damian Glass weren’t anywhere near the general vicinity of friendship. 

Francis looked at the pale man on the big black couch, his white button up loose at the collar, long sleeves rolled up to just above his forearms. In the dim light reaching him from the small side-table lamp, his cheeks were flushed and his blue, blue eyes held something in them that Francis didn’t have a name for. 

Damian was leaning back, his legs crossed, both arms hanging around the back of the couch. The white fabric was pulled tight across his chest, exposing more than the few open buttons would have otherwise, and highlighting the planes of his chest, the smooth, hard angles of his well-muscled pectorals. With his legs crossed, his pants, too, were pulled tight, and the dark material clung to his thighs and calves.

No, Francis knew that friends didn’t feel this way about each other.

“Damian…”

“Yes, Frankie?”

Francis looked at him with eyes of hunger, looked at him with confusion, and looked as if he wanted to memorize every fold of fabric, every inch of the vision before him.

Damian raised the glass to his lips once again.

“Who are you?”

Mid-swallow, Damian’s sharp intake of breath forced the astringent liquid deep into his lungs. He coughed, and coughed, but the burning wouldn't’ stop, wouldn't’ leave his throat.

Shit.

A cold glass pressed to his hand, and a deep, firm voice commanded him.

“Drink.”

And so he drank. The water went down easy and clean, and after a while he was able to breathe again. The hand rubbing his back didn’t stop, and the thigh Francis pressed against him seared into the meaty flesh of his leg through the thin material. Damian painted, and looked up at Francis from under long, dark lashes.

He reached up a hand, hesitating halfway there, but it eventually found its home in the end. His thumb held Francis’ chin, and when the man didn't’ stop him, he pulled down the head of dark curls.

When their lips met, it was cold and wet, water from the glass still lingering in the creases of Damian’s mouth. It was a chaste kiss, and Damian pulled back after a moment, admiring the blush over Francis’ dark features.

“I’m whoever you want me to be, Frankie,” he said, and Damian ran his hands through Francis’ black curls, releasing them from the cast of product they had been trapped in. The unrestrained hair floated around Francis’ head like a dark halo.

Here, finally, is my dark angel.

Damian’s hands slid down the long column of Francis’ neck, roughened by the permanent five o’clock shadow. His hands slid further down, resting against the center of Francis’ broad, bulky chest, touching the soft olive green fabric there, feeling the heat emanating from his heart, and wanted nothing more than to fist his hands in the sweater and pull them together and take what he wanted.

Take what he was owed.

Damian pulled his hands back and leaned on one, chin in his hand, head cocked up at Francis.

“What do you want?” Damian asked.

“I don’t-,” Francis started, but silenced at the withering look Damian gave him.

“I want your honesty. If you’re not going to be honest, I...” he paused, steeling himself, “I want you to leave.”

“Really?” Francis’ voice was small, but Damian refused to give in.

“Yes. So tell me the truth for once in your life. I have to hear it. What do you want?” 

Francis knew he was being faced with a choice. He had chosen once, a long time ago, and it had been the wrong choice, it had torn him away from the person he loved most, and he  punished himself for it with the prison that he’d built with the rest of choices of his miserable life. 

He had walked this earth for thirty-eight years, and while he had been able to accomplish so many wonderful things for other people, saved so many lives, dedicated himself to being the best man he could be, he wasn’t happy. When was it enough? When was his suffering enough? When was he allowed to follow his heart? 

When was he allowed to be selfish?

Who could it possibly hurt if he was selfish, just one more time?

Only once. That’s all I need. Just once. And then I can let him go.

Francis pressed into Damian’s space and brought up a hand to cradle his head, fingers carding through the blonde locks, the heat from Damian’s scalp warming his hand. He looked into Damian’s too-blue eyes, and made his choice. 

He brought their lips together again, but where their first kiss had been cold and wet, this one was hot and hard. Damian sighed into the bruising kiss, his breath lost, and wrapped his hands around the back of Francis’ neck, closing the last inches of empty air between them, and pulled the doctor bodily on top of himself.

Chapter Text

They were kissing, again; finally. Francis’ large bulk crushed Damian’s slender frame into the black couch, his mouth stealing all of Damian’s breath, and Damian thought that if this was how he died, that would be alright. 

That would be perfectly fine.

Damian pulled his mouth away, and Francis trailed kisses, bites, along his jaw, down his smooth neck. 

“Ah,” he moaned into the bliss; but at this angle, with his hips twisted to the side, he couldn't hold Francis properly, couldn’t wrap himself around the firm, full body on top of him.

“Wait,” he gasped, and Francis immediately froze, jumping back from the blonde devil, hand clutched to his pounding chest. 

“I’m sorry, I-” panic was writ all over Francis’ face, and Damian’s stomach clenched uncomfortably at the sight.

“No, Frankie,” he said, leaning forward, and fisted his hand in Francis’ sweater to hold him still; stop him from running away.

Stop fucking running away. Be here with me. Please.

So many things went unsaid between them, but tonight they had exchanged enough words. The time for talk was over; the time for action was now. He turned towards the good doctor and slipped his leg between Francis and the inside of the couch, fully opening his thighs, and pulled Francis down between them.

They fit together perfectly, slotted together like the gears of a repaired clock. Damian looked up into Francis’ dark brown eyes, black in the low light of the living room, and held his gaze as he pressed his open hips up against Francis, feeling the bulk there, feeling the heat emanating.

A guttural sound escaped Francis’ mouth, and his head fell into the crux of Damian’s neck and shoulder. Damian wrapped his arms around Francis’ back, holding him completely against his body, and repeated the motion, grinding up and against Francis’ growing arousal.

“Damian,” Francis grunted. Was it a warning? Was it an invitation to continue? Damian didn’t care, as long as it wasn’t the word ‘no’. Damian ground up again and finally Francis responded, pressing his hips down and sliding against Damian’s own burning arousal.

At the moment he thrust, he also bit down into the tendons of Damian’s soft neck, and a shocked, keening sound escaped Damian’s lips. Francis, again, immediately pulled away, prepared to be kicked out, prepared to be punished for being so bold as to assume-

“Stop thinking,” Damian commanded, yanking Francis’ curly hair at the root to pull him in front of Damian’s face so the only thing Francis could focus on was him and him alone. “Stop thinking, and do it again, or I really will kick you out this time,” Damian finished with a smirk.

He would never do it, he could never push Francis away, but Francis didn’t know that.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Francis’ voice was deep and gravelly, and the lips forming those words were swollen from kissing; from tasting.

Damian licked his lips.

“Do you want to know a secret?” he asked.

“I… okay.” Francis tried to lean back, move away, but Damian had him trapped, legs wrapped around his hips, pale hand fisted in his black hair, arm holding him bodily on top of the smaller man.

Damian wouldn’t let him get away this time. His free hand slipped under the bottom of Francis’ olive green sweater and slid up Francis’ stomach, feeling firm muscles under a soft layer of flesh, and as his hand moved higher it met coiled hair that tangled in his fingers. 

“You’re so warm, Frankie,” he murmured, nuzzling into Francis’ neck. He pulled Francis’ head down and whispered into his ear: “When you barged into my apartment seeking revenge or justice or… something else, when you found me naked and when you forced into me from behind… do you remember how easily you slid into me?”

Francis didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything, so enraptured was he, so held on the precipice of pleasure, trapped within Damian’s arms, trapped in his voice. Damian pulled harder on his hair, and Francis let out a debased noise.

“What do you imagine I was doing before you got here? Do you know why you came inside me like you were born to fit into me, or did you think that’s anal sex was supposed to work?”

Francis didn’t understand the game Damian was playing, but instead of stifling his arousal, the embarrassment building in his stomach fueled his arousal, and he grew harder against Damian, twitching in his pants.

Damian, of course, noticed, and ground up against the heat there, releasing a small moan of his own.

“Before you so rudely interrupted me, I was fucking myself, opening myself up, and do you know who I thought of while I did that?” Damian couldn’t stop himself, his hips rolling up to meet Francis’, and Francis unable to hold himself back as well, pressing down over and over until they were undulating small waves together.

“I thought of you, Frankie. I wanted you inside of me, I w- ah - was so wet and open and stretched for you because I had wanted you all along. And then you showed up, and I tried to do the noble thing, I really did. I tried to send you- ah - mm… I tried to send you away, but you just wouldn’t leave, and then you gave me what I wanted all along.”

Damian couldn’t hold himself up anymore, couldn’t hold Francis’ head down anymore, and his arm flew out searching for something firm to anchor himself to, something he could use to stabilize his movements so he could press harder against the painful bulge grinding against him.

A wet mouth found his neck, and Damian could feel the strain Francis used to hold himself back, could feel the tension in his neck and back and muscles. Their bodies continued to move against each other, and sweat built in the small of Damian’s back.

“And then you- mmm… you came inside of me, and left me, and it hurt, it hurt so bad…”

Francis’ lips moved against Damian’s neck, and he could almost hear the words ‘i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry” repeated over and over into his skin.

“It hurt because I wanted to cum so fucking bad and you almost had me there, you almost had me and then you left … again … but Frankie. Frankie, look at me,” and Francis lifted his head and looked down into Damian’s deep blue eyes, and saw him, really saw him. He saw the mussed blonde hair, he saw the flush over pale cheeks, he saw a wet glint in his eyes. He saw Damian’s white shirt unbuttoned and pink marks along the right side of his neck, and he thought, I did that to him. I did this to him.

Francis saw Damian’s vulnerability, and when Damian told him what he told him next, it took everything he had not to climax from Damian’s words alone.

“You left, and I went back to my room, and I pushed out your gift, pushed it out and slicked up my cock with it and slicked up my dildo, and I came just like that, not two minutes after you left. I came and our cum mixed together and I’ve never been so fucking happy in my entire goddamn life.

“I want your everything. I’m begging you. Stop holding back. Please.”

Damian tilted his head to the side, opening up his neck to anything and everything Francis wanted to do to him, and lay there lax, waiting for Francis’ decision.

I want him so badly it hurts. I want him all the time. I have to have him. He’s letting me have him.

I’m making my choice.

Francis leaned back enough to make room between their bodies, and didn’t notice the disappointment that flashed across Damian’s face. Buttons flew across the room as he reached between them and ripped Damian’s white button down in half.

“Frankie.” Pleasure streaked across Damian’s face in a big Cheshire grin.

The good doctor leaned down and once again crushed Damian’s body with his own, his lips finding full pink ones that had been waiting for his kiss for a very long time. He cradled Damian’s head in one hand, his other reaching under Damian and encircling his waist, pulling him up towards Francis. It was all Damian could do to hold on.

Their heads tilted, deepening the kiss. A timid tongue reached out, pressing against Damian’s lips, and Damian welcomed it inside with his own with little strokes. Francis grew bolder, pressing further inside, and in a moment of passion when Francis’ tongue fully withdrew, Damian reached into Francis’ mouth with his own tongue, gasping at the soft silky warmth of Francis’ mouth, gasping at the taste of his one true love. His tongue reached further than he’d intended, reached further than Francis’ had reached in Damian’s mouth, but Francis moaned at the intrusion, and Damian stroked in further, as far as he could, licking the depths of Francis’ mouth, fucking his mouth with Damian’s tongue, fucking him how he wished Francis would fuck his body.

Francis thrust down especially hard, and Damian released a pained moan.

“It’s too tight, too hot, Frankie,” and he wasn’t lying; sweat beaded his brow, and with his thighs spread for Francis’ wide body, there was nowhere for his arousal to move.

A growl escaped Francis’ clenched teeth, and frowning, he jerked upright, tearing off his sweater. His thick arms reached down and tore the remains of Damian’s shirt off of his body, and he froze, looking down at the younger man.

“You…” he started, but couldn’t finish, lost for words. He reached out with a rough, tan hand and touched Damian’s swollen lips, and trailed his fingers down Damian’s chin, his neck, over his Adam’s apple, down the center of his chest along his sternum, all the way below his belly button where Damian’s slacks started and cut off any more territory. 

“I know, I’m gorgeous, right?” Damian laughed sarcastically, but Francis could feel the insecurity in the joke. He reached up a hand and cupped Damian’s face, and Damian leaned into the touch with his eyes closed, looking as fragile as glass.

“You’re beautiful,” Francis finished. He let go of Damian’s cheek and reached down to undo Damian’s fly, missing the fire in Damian's eyes. Damian's chest burned and he wanted to cry, but he held it back, held it in.

He thinks I'm beautiful.

But the zipper just wouldn’t budge. His fingers kept fumbling, too big to maneuver the small button and the zipper caught in the thin material. Frustration built, and Francis snapped. He grasped either side of the fly in each hand and tore , ripping the material apart as easily as he’d torn apart Damian’s shirt, as easily as he’d ripped off the dirty latex gloves after he fingered Damian to completion in his office.

Damian gasped in shock and awe. “Frankie,” was the only thing he could say, and he reached up and undid Francis’ fly with urgency and shaking hands, revealing the top of a pair of black trunks. There he stopped, laid back, and waited to see what Francis would do.

Is he going to run away if he sees my arousal? Has he ever even done anything with another guy before? Should I pull him down so he doesn’t see, so he can’t run away scared again? 

I want him so badly it hurts and if he leaves this time, I think I’ll die.

Francis reached down with a hand that did not shake, and Damian held his breath, afraid of making a wrong move and scaring him off, of waking him up from whatever fugue state he had to have put himself in to be able to do these things with another man, and especially with Damian, who he had seemed to hate at every turn.

Seemed to hate, that is, until he sent that text asking if Damian was okay; until he showed up on Damian’s doorstep tonight with worry smeared all over his face.

Finally Francis’ hand found his skin. His fingers stroked the soft skin just above Damian's pelvis, underneath his belly button but before his royal blue briefs began. The material glowed against his pale skin in the low light, and Francis’ mouth watered.

Chapter Text

“You’re so smooth.”

Francis was referring, of course, to the almost complete lack of hair on Damian’s body. His fingers glided unobstructed across Damian’s hips and below his belly button. 

“Yes, ah- electrolysis tends to do that. It also makes it m- more sensitive,” Damian managed to get out, Francis’ touch distracting him and making sparks shoot across his skin. His muscles contracted involuntarily, and the front of his royal blue briefs pulsed. Francis’ hand paused, before trailing two fingers down further, finally reaching the band of Damian’s underwear, and sliding even further down until he could feel the heat and hardness concealed by soft blue fabric.

“ Ah, Frankie…” Damian couldn’t think with Francis’ fingers on him, and was terrified that if he reacted too strongly, Francis would spook and run away.

“Even here?” Francis’ voice was deep, his drawl thick, and Damian couldn’t look at him. Goosebumps broke out over his arms and chest.

“Y-yes.”

The full weight of Francis’ palm rested on top of Damian’s painful arousal, and Damian barely held himself back from bucking up into the rough hand. 

“I want to kiss you again, Damian.”

“Then kiss me.”

Francis leaned down and recaptured Damian’s lips with his own, his tongue pressing forward quickly, and Damian opened himself up to Francis utterly, pliant in the larger man’s hands. The velvet wetness of Francis’ tongue rubbed against his, pushing further back.

Pushing too far.

Damian pulled back, a hand pressing against Francis’ chest. Francis immediately stilled his lower hand and gazed intently at Damian.

“Too deep, Frankie. You’re going to make me gag,” Damian chuckled, his cheeks aflame.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot about that.” Francis was genuinely remorseful, as he always was, and his dark eyes ran over Damian’s gentle features as if to reassure himself that Damian was okay.

“You forgot?” 

“I don’t have one, so I forget sometimes that other people do.”

His heart missed a beat, and Damian’s pupils blew wide with arousal. Francis felt Damian’s cock pulse in his hand, and squeezed gently, massaging again over the blue material, his hand slipping further down into Damian’s pants, cupping him fully in his hand.

“You… Ah, Frankie… You don’t have one?” 

Francis shook his head, looking embarrassed, but his hand never stopped moving over Damian.

“You’re perfect. You were perfectly made for me,” and Damian grabbed the head of dark curls and pulled Francis’ mouth down to meet his. This time, Francis was the one who yielded to Damian’s tongue. Damian started slow, moving in and out, going further and further each time, until his tongue was rubbing the back of Francis’ tongue, rubbing the back of his soft palate, gliding along the slippery soft, smooth tissue there. He fucked Francis’ mouth mercilessly, but it wasn’t enough. 

When it came to Francis, for Damian, it would never be enough.

It wasn’t enough for Francis, either, and finally his hand slipped under the thin material of Damian’s briefs and touched his arousal skin to skin. Damian moaned into his mouth, and when Francis encircled his shaft with his rough palm and pumped once, a keening sound poured from Damian’s throat into Francis' open mouth. 

“Fuck.” Damian finally released Francis’ mouth, and was paralyzed with pleasure, lying there under the man he’d chased for an eternity, said man slowly jerking him off, the devil in his black eyes. Every slide up and down had his body tensing, and he held onto Francis’ broad shoulders for dear life, nails digging into the thick muscle there. Damian released one shoulder and brought a hand up to cradle Francis’ face. They were so close, heat pooling between them, sweat beading over their bare chests.

A thumb ghosted over Francis’ lips, and he darted out his tongue to taste it.

Cinnamon. Heat. Something else.

What is it?

Damian slipped his thumb inside Francis’ mouth, rubbing it against Francis’ tongue, and Francis sucked on it, laving it gently. It was replaced soon after by an index finger, and Francis accepted it hungrily. Inside of Francis, Damian could feel the center ridge of his tongue, and he couldn’t stop himself as he added another finger. Francis was so careful with them, cradling them, pushing his head down on them.

Fucking them with his mouth.

“You’re perfect, Frankie,” Damian repeated, in awe. Francis hummed his appreciation around the slender fingers in his mouth, the vibration moving down Damian’s arm. Damian gasped, all of the sensation too much, the sense of power too much. 

Francis pumped him faster now, and rutted his hardness against Damian’s ass, against any inch of Damian that he could reach, any friction he could find. Damian’s cock leaked pitifully in his hand, slicking and easing the way. Every time precum beaded at his tip, Francis’ thumb would find it and rub it in circles against his crown, never stopping the up and down motion of his hand. He knew Damian loved it because every time he did it, Damian’s cock nearly jumped from his hand.

It was the same motion he did to himself when he had jerked off the last few weeks (months) thinking of the slender man underneath him, and it pleased him endlessly that that same motion was undoing Damian.

Serves you right.

Damian’s fingers were long, but nevertheless they bottomed out, his knuckles hitting Francis’ teeth. He expected Francis to pull away, to show discomfort, to tell him he was a freak and run away, but none of that happened. Francis pushed his head down further, Damian’s knuckles entering his mouth, and the tips of his fingers went down the back of Francis' throat. Drool dribbled down his arm and hit his naked chest, and Damian tested the depth, wriggling his fingers.

Francis’ eyes shut in bliss and he moaned again, except this time Damian could feel where the vibration started inside of his throat, and it was too much. Francis thrusting against his perineum, Francis working his cock and rubbing the glans, moving faster and faster, Francis accepting his fingers all the way down inside of himself, being able to feel the hook at the back of his throat where it angled down…

It was all too much.

Usually, his climax built like a lego house, brick by brick, a predictable series of steps that he had perfected and could anticipate, but this one overtook him like an unexpected ocean wave on a moonless night, cresting and crashing without warning, wiping out everything in its path.

Francis watched as rope after rope released across Damian’s bare chest, his deep blue eyes closed in rapture, suckling still on Damian’s fingers, and thrusting up with his own arousal against Damian’s perineum as if he could help push out more of the glistening fluid from Damian’s body.

Finally, finally, Damian’s hand slid from Francis’ mouth and landed wetly in the mess on his chest, his and Francis’ fluids mixing together. His eyes opened slowly, blinking as if adjusting to the light, and when he finally looked up and met Francis’ eyes, his face was serene, almost innocent, a small smile across his lips.

“Frankie.”

Francis looked down into his eyes and returned the smile, cheeks flushed, sweat beading at his temples, a few drops escaping and dripping down black curls to patter gently onto Damian’s chest, adding to the Jackson Pollock of bodily fluids. He brought up his clean hand and cupped Damian’s pink cheeks.

Abruptly, he pulled away, sitting up completely.

No. Don’t go. Please.

“Frankie?” Damian asked, his voice small, his heart on the edge of breaking. Francis looked alarmed and bolted to his feet. He addressed Damian without turning his head:

“Do you smell that?”

Damian climbed to his feet, prepared to brush off Francis’ flimsy excuse for an escape, when he smelled-

And that was when the fire alarm went off.

Chapter Text

The smell of smoke. The noticeable increase in temperature. The blare of the alarm drowning out everything else. Drowning out the burn on Damian’s face where Francis’ stubble rubbed him raw, drowning out the discomfort of the finger painting on his chest, drowning out the pleasure and soul-fulfilling joy and relief that he just experienced. It was all gone, wiped clean by the blazing inferno the two men were about to encounter.

Damian was somewhere else, his mind wiped clean, but something was tugging his arm. Some one ? Someone was… what’s happening?

Francis frantically pulled on Damian, but the smaller man wouldn’t, or couldn't, respond.

“Damian.”

...

“Damian!”

...

“Damian, we have to go. Now! We have to- Goddammit, where’re your keys?”

Damian’s arm lifted, pointing in some direction, as he fought to come back to the surface of whatever fear had pulled him under. 

For some reason Damian couldn’t determine, it was getting louder and louder in the apartment. Running outside, yelling from the hallway, the alarm continued to blare the whole time.

“-mian!”

Gently, a hand held the side of his face, and he leaned into the touch, closing his eyes and sighing. Pulled back to the present, his eyes opened, and he saw Francis’ face inches from his.

“Damian?”

“Frankie.”

“We have to go.”

“Okay.”

Francis led them to the door, pausing to touch it with the back of his hand before opening.

“ Fuck ,” he breathed. “Damian, when I open this door, we have to run for the stairs. D’you understand?”

“Mhmm.”

“Okay. Let’s go.” And he opened the door, running out, pulling Damian behind him, making it to the stairwell at the end of the hallway on the opposite end from the elevator that he’d noticed every time he’d come to see Damian, always aware of the entries and exits wherever he went. 

“Come on-” he led, but Damian yanked out of his grasp. “The fuck-”

“The laptop,” was all Damian said before he ran away from Francis, heading back down the hallway, flames licking up, racing towards him from the direction of the elevator. 

“FUCK!” Francis roared, but no one was around to hear him. Smoke filled the hallway, making it hard to see, flames climbed and ate away at the carpet and ceiling, and the alarm kept blaring, hitting the inside of his skull like a jackhammer.

There was no question about what he did next, no hesitation on his part: he left the stairwell and ran back to Damian’s apartment, the door already open.

“Damian!” he yelled, but there was no answer. He waited for just a moment, fear tightening his chest.

Blessedly, he heard, “Fr-” and then coughing, so much coughing. But coughing was good; coughing meant life. Francis swung his head and saw Damian staggering from his left through a doorway that Francis assumed was his bedroom. Clutched tight to his chest, of course, was an unmarked laptop. 

Francis ran to him, grabbed him, pulled him out of the apartment, down the hallway, smashing through the stairwell doors, and flew down thirteen flights of stairs, never letting go of the smaller man, and finally busted through the safety doors at the bottom of the stairwell.

They were released into the cool night air, rain coming down hard, and they ran from the building, coughing the whole way. There was a group of people standing on the lawn who had obviously also just run from the blaze, loitering in various states of undress, paying little mind to the two shirtless, disheveled, shoe-less men in their midst. Francis pulled Damian away from the group, and rounded on him. 

“How could you do that? One laptop isn't worth your life!”

“It is , Frankie.” 

Damian sounded defeated and refused to meet Francis’ gaze, instead watching the building, watching flames erupt from the thirteenth and fourteenth floors, the glass from wall upon wall of windows shattered outwards, exploding with the heat, raining down upon the firefighters in the front parking lot that raced around like ants for their queen. A second truck arrived, and even more yellow and black-vested individuals moving with purpose and focus to contain the blaze.

I wonder if the rain will help. Pity.

With their eyes on the fiery image before them, the two men didn’t see a lone figure watching them from the treeline at the back of the lawn, wearing a dark grey windbreaker, wavy brown hair plastered flat against his scalp, cap crushed in a shaking fist at his side. He turned and stepped into the trees, disappearing into the black sway of their branches.

Chapter Text

The road back to Nowhere was dark and cold and lonely, rain hitting the car like bullets. Inside, the car was silent as Francis drove down the empty highway, knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel with both hands, keeping them from roaming, from reaching out, from touching Damian to make sure he was okay, to hold his hand and ground himself in his solidity. 

But that was inappropriate in uncountable ways. Firstly, Damian was practically a stranger.

A stranger I punched, fucked, and kissed.

How long had they known each other? Weeks? Months? And how much did he really know about the man?

A stranger nevertheless. Secondly, touching Damian never went anywhere good. It was pleasurable, yes, but pleasure is cheap; pleasure is fleeting.

Francis ignored the fact that his life was so devoid of pleasure that a single drop from Damian equaled a gallon, and that he was eternally parched.

A dehydrated wanderer in the desert does not chase oases because he believes he is unworthy of supping; what is he to do when an oasis stands before him and commands, ‘ Drink’?

Half tap water, half blessed water with a drop more, makes everything holy.

Luckily, his old gym bag was still in the trunk; Francis wouldn't admit how good Damian looked sitting there in his old heather grey Georgia State sweatshirt; the one missing its hood string; the one with small holes in worn spots where it repeatedly hit the inside of the washer. One of these small holes was inconveniently located in the upper chest area, and so the third reason for Francis’ white knuckling presents itself: Damian’s pink nipple kept poking out of that small hole, and if Francis loosened his hands on the wheel even a fraction of an inch, he would reach out and take.

And he couldn't afford to keep taking. He couldn’t.

Selfishness. I’m so fucking selfish. Don’t you fucking dare, you disgusting prick. Don’t you fucking dare.

And so he held on with all of his willpower. He held on as his heart pounded, as his arms began to shake, and as his breathing shallowed. All the adrenaline of the night finally wore off, and in the silence of the car, he was left with his thoughts. Alone.

Fire

Damian

Laptop

Julie

I’m-

Damian

What have I-

Julie

Wedding ring.

His eyes flicked down and confirmed the gaudy band was not on his finger. It was where it should be, tucked into the pocket of his white coat hanging in the closet, waiting for him to once again take up the mantle of Doctor and help people, do his job, and be alone for hours in that big hospital.

Unfortunately, loneliness no longer held the appeal it once did.

In the old gym bag, there was also a blue t-shirt that said “On Porpoise” and had a small cartoon porpoise above the letters, but Francis insisted Damian take the sweatshirt while he himself pulled on the silly shirt. It was that good old southern gentlemanly chivalry of his, but he hadn’t liked how Damian shivered as they gave their statements to the police (a necessity in order to get his car from the parking lot where the fire trucks and ambulances were temporarily set up), didn’t like the knowing looks Damian received because of their disheveled appearances, for the mess on his chest that the rain had washed away, but just a little. 

And he especially didn't like the gawking, the heated stares as people let their eyes roam all over Damian’s pale, lithe body that glowed under the big white lights of the parking lot.

Mine, he had growled internally, and he hated himself for it.

The car thumped over an unnoticed pothole and Francis sharply inhaled through his nose.

Rolling black fields on either side of the road disappeared and the rain quieted to dull spattering as the car took the next exit and entered the dark, impenetrable forest surrounding Nowhere, Georgia. They were back so quickly, too quickly, and Francis felt that there was something he needed to do, or to say, but he didn’t know what. It was an itchy feeling that crawled up his insides from the base of his stomach, and breathing got a little harder. It reminded him of when he was younger, when guilt would twist him up, make him nauseous, even throw up when it peaked.

Is that it? Do I feel guilty?

Of course. This is wrong. This is all wrong.

What have I done? What am I doing?

Francis pulled the car to a stop in the driveway of a small cottage off of the main square at the center of town, within walking distance of the church and diner and grocery-hardware store, and turned the key off. He knew where to go after Damian told him who he needed to see without needing any directions. Everyone in town knew where the fancy Fraggle officer was staying; the town didn’t get a lot of long-term visitors.

A single light glowed inside the cottage, and the rain slowed to a sprinkle, steam rising off of the hood of the car. The two men sat there, and still no words were spoken between them. Damian moved to open the door, but drew back his hand and opened his mouth like he had something to say.

Then he closed it, and silence continued to reign, until he finally broke it.

“Frankie.”

Francis’ audible breathing in the small car cut off, caught in his throat. His head turned to his passenger, eyes running over the smooth features and hard angles, taking in blue eyes reflecting the light from the cottage as Damian stared straight ahead, sparing him not a single glance. 

“We can’t do this.”

Shock cut into his core, and his head jerked back as though he’d been slapped. Francis’ eyes locked onto the steering wheel, hands clenching and unclenching.

“But you said… you said you wanted…” He couldn’t continue, couldn’t say the words out loud.

“I know what I said, and I meant it, but we can’t.”

Francis was silent.

“I’m sorry,” Damian said, and moved to put his hand on Francis’ thigh, but Francis jerked away from him at the last moment.

“Is it because I… I’m sorry that I… was it too much?”

It was always too much; he was always too much. And so, there was nothing he could do besides accept it.

I ruin everything.

Damian laughed mirthlessly under his breath, eyes fixed the light calling to him from the front window of the small cottage. He shook his head and in one smooth motion unlocked his seatbelt, leaned across the arm rest dividing their seats, fisted the front of Francis’ blue shirt, and yanked the man to him, meeting the good doctor’s mouth with his own, forcing a kiss. 

Francis shoved him away, breathing hard, back pressed into the car door, trying to get as far away from the viper as he could. The back of his hand was rough against his lips as he wiped repeatedly, eyes wide in shock. 

What if someone sees?

The viper looked at his love with pain in his eyes, with a silent accusation. No, not an accusation, because Damian wasn’t accusing him of anything. It was a look that said, you confirmed my worst fears, and what I have left isn’t anger, but disappointment, even though I shouldn’t be disappointed because I knew this would happen. But I hoped I’d be wrong.

Damian was the first to speak.

“Do you get it now, Frankie?” There was no response, and so he continued. “I could sit here and outline my feelings, outline how I have a lot of shit going on right now, outline how I just survived a fucking fire, outline how angry it makes me that…” Damian’s jaw muscle flexed as he grit his perfect white teeth. “But it’s not important, and you won’t understand, even if I told you the whole… You won’t understand. You can’t. And that’s fine. It’s not okay, but it’s fine.”

Rage and confusion boiled in Francis’ chest, but he couldn’t think of anything to say, so he remained silent.

Quietly, Damian said, “I need a favor, Frankie.”

Francis’ throat constricted, and the first attempt at speaking didn’t work, so he tried again, voice grinding out.

“Wh-what is it?”

“I need you to hold onto the laptop and not tell a single person about it.” 

The laptop currently in his old gym bag in the trunk.

“Why?” Francis was blunt and honest, as always. “Are you in trouble?”

“I will be if anyone else finds out about it.”

The cottage door opened then, and a short woman in a painfully gorgeous lavender robe stood in the doorway, arms crossed, face dour. Damian checked his pants pockets and the front pocket of the sweatshirt, making sure his wallet, keys, and phone were all where they were supposed to be. His fingers tightened on door handle, and just as he pulled and the door clicked open, flooding the car with light:

“Are you going to be okay?”

Damian adjusted his face before turning back, flashing his most genial smile to the man who broke his heart over and over again.

“Of course. I always am.”

And he left.

Chapter Text

And so I leave the car, walk up the small path to the small house Darcy insists on renting because of corporate’s god damn fucking assimilation directives, and definitely do not look back at Frankie.

Usually, that would be sarcasm, and I would have in fact been looking back, but I’m being uncharacteristically genuine here. 

I can’t handle his face right now.

As soon as I get to the door, Darcy also acts uncharacteristically and pulls me into the biggest hug I’ve ever seen her give anyone.

Aw, I’m ~special~.

Now see, that’s sarcasm.

I texted her briefly on the road from Macon and then turned off the phone so I didn't have to deal with her calls and texts. Because I'm an asshole.

“Darcy Darling, I’m fine, this is so unnecessary, it was barely even a blaze, practically just a campfire,” I say, but I don’t try to break out of her hold. 

“Shut the fuck up, you sonofabitch,” she says, and I can hear a tremor in her voice, and I do in fact shut up. After a moment longer, she finally releases me, holding me at arms length, hands tight on my elbows, and looks me up and down.

“Damian, you look like shit.”

“Oh well thank you so much, that’s such a kind thing to say. Anyway I’m going to go to sleep now, so…” and I gently break free from her arms, walking further into the little quaint cottage. I won’t go into too many details about the place because, honestly, it’s disgusting, but all that must be said is that it is exactly what you think of when you hear ‘quaint cottage in a small town in the south’.

Yes, I know. What a nightmare.

I head straight back through the living room filled with big fluffy, floral patterned sofas, and take a left, turning my head around to say something snarky to Darcy, and that’s when I run smack into a firm human body.

“Jesus fuck!” I exhale in a very manly manner; it is not a shriek.

“Now, Damian, thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain,” says Pastor Fucking Gabrielle Fucking McCullough with her lilting Irish accent, a twinkle in her green eyes, white smile wide in her freckled face.

This... this is the worst night of my life.

Well, almost.

*KILL BILL SIRENS*

She’s wearing a lavender robe that matches Darcy’s, of course, but it’s a bit short on her since she’s a fucking Amazon. The hem hits her mid-thigh, and reveals the bottom of some intricate tattoo that I’m betting covers a lot more of her skin than someone would assume about a Pastor, a Paragon of the Lord, et cetera and so forth.

Barf. Something to look into later on, perhaps.

Honestly, she’s hot, and like, good for Darcy, you know? Unfortunately, this whole thing just got a lot more complicated, especially when the smile falls from her face and her forehead wrinkles in real concern and she asks:

“Damian, are you okay? Do I smell smoke? What happened?”

She reaches out a hand and it takes all of my willpower not to flinch when it lands on my shoulder.

And that’s how I end up spending an hour drinking tea with my bff Darcy and her girlfriend, the Pastor of the whole fucking town. I try to be charmingly puckish as always, and give as little information as possible, but the ghost is given up when Darcy casually mentions that Frankie’s the one who dropped me off.

And so, what am I supposed to do? I have to cover it up, and quickly. I have plans and they aren’t going to be ruined by the likes of some small town Irish transplant. 

So I spin a yarn about how Dr. Francis Moore came to Macon to apologize for the big misunderstanding re: adultery, to apologize for punching me, saying that he wanted to be friends and support me, saying that he had given a thought of reflection and prayer to it, and felt it was what God wanted him to do, and begged for my forgiveness.

There had definitely been begging, buuuuuuut not that kind.

And then, of course, how a fire broke out and Dr. Francis Moore valiantly saved my life and drove me back here. 

Darcy starts glaring at me about two minutes into my spiel; she knows me too well, knows I am playing a game, but I think maybe she doesn’t care because she doesn’t challenge me on any of it, just lets her boo eat it up. Gabrielle even pops out a couple of tears, occasionally lifting a hand from the trap she’s caught mine in to wipe them away. She’s so genuine and it’s disgusting.

How can Darcy stand it??

She leaves at some point, and comes back with a towel, a folded lavender robe (does she buy them in bulk the way I buy those hilarious plaques?), and a small, jet-black, limited edition Gucci duffel bag.

“Here,” she says, and thunks it all down on the table.

I pull it over, inspecting the bag, and find that my dear Darcy has an emergency go-bag for me already prepared. I almost wish I could cry from the thoughtfulness. Inside is everything I need to spend a few nights here. 

“Aw, Darcy Darling, you shouldn’t have,” I say, and it sounds sarcastic, but she knows I mean it. She always knows when I mean it. That’s one of the things I love about her.

I excuse myself, heading to the bathroom to shower off the smoke and spunk clinging to my skin, and once the door shuts and I’m finally alone, my eyes mist up. It’s a little hard to breathe, and my lungs feel… prickly, so I sit down and lean against the door, taking in deep breaths.

That was really scary, right? I mean, I could’ve died. What the fuck. I can’t believe he would do something like that. Just because things hadn’t been moving at the speed he wanted; and unreasonable speed, I might add. And Frankie… Frankie could’ve been hurt. How could he put Frankie in danger? He knows how important Frankie is to me.

Maybe that’s the rub, though. Maybe his ‘present’ is the reminder that he can do whatever he wants at any time, and I can’t stop him.

What a fucking asshole. Sometimes I wish I had never met him, but without him, I wouldn’t be this close to having everything I ever wanted. I just have to play the game a bit longer, and it’ll all be worth it.

He didn’t have to burn down my apartment though. That was a bit extra.

Finally, my breathing evens out and I manage to stand and strip, turning on the shower. The sound of the spray fills the small bathroom, drowning out all other sounds, and I feel calmer, more centered. In the bathroom mirror, I look tired and closer to my real age. I sure wish Darcy had any of my serums or lotions in that black bag, but beggars can’t be choosers.

Fog fills the mirror as I take out my contacts, blue plastic floating in the new contact case from Darcy, and silently criticize the lines ringing my two tired, grey eyes. 

I’m running out of time.

Chapter Text

Pastor Gabrielle closed the leather-bound, gold-leafed bible on the podium, and stepped out in front of her congregation. Her short cropped red hair glowed golden in the morning light filtering in through the stained glass murals along the walls, and in her green robe glowed like a radium sun-dial.

“Today, I want to have a conversation with you,” the Pastor said, and sat down on the edge of the stage, the long green sleeves of her robe pushed up, exposing the tight white sleeves underneath, and long green robes swirling around her feet.

That morning, Julie had woken him by pounding on the heavy wooden door to his study until he limped from the leather couch, naked except for his underwear. He cracked the door open, and her barrage began.

“Frank, I swear if you make me late today, I-”

Shit. Today was Sunday. Sunday meant church service. Shitfuck.

“M’ sorr’, Jules,” Francis slurred from lack of sleep.

“Are you drunk again, Frank? Seriously?” Julie snapped, fastening a gold tennis bracelet around her right wrist.

“No, m’ sorry, I just din’ sleep well’s all,” he replied, and he was telling the truth, but Julie didn’t have much use for the truth these days. 

“Your hair’s all over the place, Frank. Take a shower, clean up and look presentable. We have to go now. Your parents already took the kids.”

“They… what? Why-”

“I don't have time to explain everything to you, since you decided to sleep in. Hurry up, I left clothes for you on the bed,” and with that she twirled and left.

“What does it take to enter His kingdom, the Kingdom of Heaven?” she asked. When no one volunteered an answer, Gabrielle clarified. “Please, anyone. Hmm… Ms. Bohnefeld! I was hoping you would raise your hand. Ma’am, as a family law attorney, how do you answer the question? What does it take to get into heaven?”

The heavy-set, dark-skinned woman ensconced in a beautiful golden yellow dress suit lowered her hand, and stood, speaking in a voice as smooth as honey and firm as granite.

“Well, Pastor, I feel like it’s a bit of a trick question,” Ms. Bohnefeld started. Gabrielle smiled in good cheer (because of course a divorce lawyer would feel there was a trick, it was their job after all), and nodded for her to continue. “But, I believe in the goodness of the Holy Trinity, and it was Jesus himself who said, ‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, strength, and mind, and love your neighbor as yourself.”

Cheers and applause went up around the counsellor, and Ms. Bohnefeld smiled not with pride, but with the warmth of her love in and for her Lord. Pastor Gabrielle let the congregation settle and for the lawyer to sit before she continued the lesson.

Francis dressed quickly in the white button down shirt, black slacks, and black dress shoes, smoothing his wild, curly black hair down with as much product as he could. He desperately tried not to think about how mere hours earlier, Damian’s fingers had slid along his scalp, fluttering and releasing his curls. Damian loved his natural hair. 

Damian loves a lot of things about me.

“Ms. Bohnefeld is referring, of course, to Luke 10:25-37, and the parable of the Good Samaritan.”

It was at this point that Francis’ stomach dropped, and dread began seeping into the loose edges.

“Jesus said,” the pastor continued, “‘do these things and you will live eternally with the Lord.’ And Jesus told a story: one of a man who was traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho, but who was attacked on his journey. He needed help, and a priest happened upon him, also on a journey. What do we think happened?”

A small child near the front raised his hand.

“Yes, Jacob?”

“He stopped! And helped!”

“Would you have stopped and helped, Jacob?” Pastor Gabrielle said it with the same open warmth she used with all of her congregants, and the boy nodded eagerly. “Then, Jacob, you would have done more than the priest, for he did nothing but pray to his God for the man to be helped, and continue on his journey.”

Jacob looked scandalized, or as scandalized as an eight year old boy could, and cold sweat slid down Francis’ spine.

“Next, a Levite, or someone who worked for a church and whose family was from that church, came upon the man. Who can tell me what this man did?”

After some nudging from her stern-faced mother, Amelia Archambeau raised her hand. Francis remembered the events of the church potluck where Mrs. Archambeau had come to him, accusing William of acting aggressively, or something. Had that all been resolved? Francis couldn't remember.

Gabrielle nodded, and the little girl dressed in white stood.

“He didn’t do anything, ma’am,” and she sat down as quickly as possible, her face red with embarrassment and from her mother pinching her side.

“You’re right, Amelia. He didn’t do anything. And finally, a traveler came upon this poor man, a traveler who did not pray the same way he did, who did not worship God the same way he did, from a different country than the man, but this traveler was the only one to offer the man aid, food, and shelter.

“This was the Good Samaritan, and he loved his neighbor as himself, despite their fundamental differences, despite their countries’ history of war, of disputes. He saw a person in need, and helped. And there was a place in Heaven for this traveler.

“There is a place in heaven for all who love the Lord and love their neighbor, and today I want to honor a very Good Samaritan indeed from among our own congregation.”

Francis’ phone buzzed in his pocket, and he slid it out, reading the text from a contact named Z. Obviously, Z was Damian, number hidden away at the bottom of his contacts just like how he always hid things at the bottom of other things.

Court documents at the bottom of a wooden box. An inappropriate contact at the bottom of a digital list.

A brother at the bottom of a grave.

The text read: Don’t panic. Of course, at that, the good doctor’s slow simmering panic turned up to boil.

Pastor Gabrielle jumped off the stage and landed gracefully, rising to her full considerable height, shoulders broad and sturdy, mouth tilted up in an endlessly kind smile.

“I would like to invite Mr. Damian Glass to stand here with me,” she said, and gasps rippled through the crowd.

Damian’s… here?

The blonde head of hair rose above the pews, and the damned man himself walked over to stand beside the pastor. Francis’ eyes bounced around, looking back and forth from where Damian had been sitting to the man himself, standing there in a baby blue button down with the sleeves rolled up, and light tan khakis. 

He looks like an actual fucking angel.

How does he do that?

Francis was referring, of course, to the gentle crinkle in Damian’s eyes he mirrored from the pastor, to the way he chameleoned his way into being accepted into whatever group he was with. It made Francis question whether or not he knew the real Damian Glass, and whether there was a real Damian Glass to know. It made him wonder-

“Last night,” the pastor began.

Oh. Oh no. No no no no nononono-

Francis looked to his right, where his wife sat next to him, the picture of perfection in a knee-length pastel sage green sundress with a white cardigan overtop, her long blonde hair piled in tendrils on top of her head, but her expression betrayed nothing. She looked more serene than she usually did at service, looked almost… giddy.

That can’t be right. She-

“-Francis Moore!” the pastor finished. Francis froze, and as the entire congregation erupted into whoops and hollers around them, Julie’s perfect face slowly turned to his, her smile so full it was almost malicious. 

“Go up, honey, ” she said, prompting him. Francis’ body mechanically complied, standing, sliding past the other congregants in the pew, walking up the red carpet of the center aisle to where Pastor Gabrielle and Damian stood at the foot of the stage, in front of the entire congregation and God Himself. 

“Francis, not only did you save Damian’s life last night after you went to him to make amends, you offering your home to him in his time of need-”

WHAT?!

“-truly an example of a Good Samaritan that we should all aspire to!”

Francis used every ounce of willpower to not make a horrific scene in front of the entire town, to stand there and smile and nod and pretend like he was in on it, like he wasn’t lying to everyone he knew about his reasons for visiting Damian, what they did there, and the aftermath. Pretending like he had in fact welcomed Damian into his home, like it was all part of his big journey to become a better Christian and husband. 

There’s no getting out of this, is there? How am I supposed to live with that man? Live so close to that man? How am I supposed to sleep, knowing he’s within reach.

How am I going to hide this from Julie?

Pastor Gabrielle lowered her head and began leading the entire congregation in a prayer, but Francis didn’t hear a single word. His black eyes slid from Pastor Gabrielle to the traitorous man standing next to her, the man who refused to meet his eyes, and he wondered, why is Damian blushing?

Chapter Text

Francis’ hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, and his eyes burned with tiredness and misery and confusion.

“What the fuck, Jules?” he whispered to his perfect wife, gravelly from lack of sleep and from nerves, too afraid to show true anger, but she snapped back regardless:

“Don’t you dare take that tone with me, Francis Moore!”

When she used his full name, he knew he was in trouble.

“I’m… I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” was all Julie said, and she resumed texting, laughing every now and then, her outrage swept away.

“What’s goin’ on, honey?” he asked, familiar nickname tacked on in supplication; the fake sweetness curdled his stomach.

I’m not this person; why do I have to keep being this person?

“Well, honey, since you’ve so politely asked, I got a very interesting call from Pastor Gabrielle early this mornin’, while you were getting your beauty sleep. She filled me in on your heroics up in Macon, and I have to say Frank, you don’t surprise me often, but when you do… it’s quite a doozy. You know,” her small, soft, pale hand slid across the divider and over the thin black material covering his firm thigh, and her thumb rolled circles into his skin through the fabric, “I had no idea that my husband was such a… champion. So selfless, goin’ up there to apologize for your wrongdoin’, and saving Damian’s life, my friend’s life, in the process.”

Francis was frozen with discomfort and dared not move a muscle.

“Are… are you mocking me?” he asked, voice tight.

“Oh, honey, no. ” Julie’s hand pressed harder, moved higher. Sick anticipation twisted like a knife in his gut, and when Julie’s fingers feathered over his zipper, she discovered her hands weren’t the only soft thing in the car.

“For fuck’s sake, Frank,” she sighed. She undid the blonde ringlets on top of her head and fluffed it out, throwing it over her shoulder, and settled back into her seat, typing away on the Fraggle phone.

“I’m-”

not

“-sorry,” he said. “I’m… happy you’re happy with… what I did. But, Jules, how long is he staying with us? When are the kids coming back? How will he get to work without a car? Why isn’t he staying with his company friend? Wh-”

“Frank, geez! Stop overthinking things. I’ll handle all of it, so don’t worry your pretty little head none. You know, I really thought you’d be happier, being recognized by the church like that. Especially Pastor Gabrielle, since you’ve been spending so much time with her…”

Francis could feel the ellipses at the end of that statement that was meant as a question.

“Julie, you don’t think… me and her…” he couldn’t finish that sentence, it was so ridiculous. Him? Cheat on Julie? With the PASTOR?

But that confused amusement turned sour as he realized he had in fact cheated on his wife; isn't that what he and Damian had done, several times now in fact? He hadn’t put it in those terms in his head yet, hadn’t realized that made him a cheater.  

He might not be as happy in his marriage as he had thought, but cheating was never something he had ever considered. Sure, he’d been flirted with at the hospital, or at medical conferences, or on vacations with his family when Julie was off getting spa treatments and he was lounging by the pool, soaking up the sun without her around guilting him for getting too dark, but he was always the perfect gentleman, turning them down gracefully, and every single person left with a smile. 

Last night, he didn’t drive up the highway to the city with the intention of breaking his vow of marriage; all he wanted was to see that Damian was safe so his mind could stop spinning, stop thinking up all the horrible situations Damian could be in.

But then they kissed, and then Francis touched him, and Francis made him cum, and it was perfection, it was pure bliss, it was a quiet calm and soothing chill and relief.  

His eyes started misting, so he quickly wiped them, the car silent as the grave on the ride home.

Chapter Text

Loving Alex was simple, where loving their parents was not. He always tried to be the best son he could for his mom and dad, and despite his second grade teacher praising him for learning school subjects quickly, he had a hard time figuring out how to be good, how to do the things they wanted him to do that he should know how to do without asking and making them mad, or forgetting to do something they said they told him to do; he was big and clumsy for his age, and though he tried hard, things tended to slip from his hands, he tended to fall into things, he tended to break things.

And when things broke, his parents broke him.

But he could handle it! He could figure out a way to be a better son, and his parents would be less angry with him, and they’d love him softer, he just knew it!

But sometimes, Alex was the one who made the mistakes; he was quiet, and their parents took that quiet for disobedience; he was too young for the chores they assigned him, and so sometimes things broke. But Francis couldn’t stand the emptiness in his brother’s hazel eyes when their parents would discipline him; couldn’t stand the way their dad would threaten to hit Alex harder, but Alex just stayed silent. He stayed so silent that their dad sometimes went too far with his fists or his belt, and sometimes their mom had to drive them to the clinic after and tell some story about foolish children jumping out of trees. 

Twice it happened that Geoff Moore’s discipline was overly rough, and the third time Francis saw the look in his father’s black eyes, felt the atmosphere shift from tense to deadly, he took the blame for Alex. It hurt, and he cried, and whimpered, and hated himself for disappointing his father, but these were all things he could live with; he couldn't live with himself if Alex was hurt again, not like that.

Loving his parents was painful, but loving Alex was his salvation; it was the one thing he was absolutely sure of in his life. He was the best big brother, which he knew with certainty because that’s what Alex would whisper to him at night in their shared bed, when Alex would cry and finally break his daily silence, and the two small boys would hold each other and fall asleep that way.

The little boys sat in the narrow hallway on two uncomfortable blue plastic child-sized chairs; the same chairs that can be found in any elementary school in America, but unfortunately, they were not in a school. The darker, bigger boy whose bruised face was showing signs of healing held the hand of the smaller, lighter boy next to him with eyes like amber who had trouble pronouncing his r’s. 

“Fwankie, I’m scawed.”

Francis was only ten, but he had already seen too much of the ugliness of the world. He squeezed his little brother’s hand tightly in his.

“It’s gonna be okay Alex.”

“But mom and dad are gone”

“Yeah.”

“Awh they coming back?”

“The guardian ad-lady said they aren’t.”

“I hope they don't.”

“Me too.”

“I… I think I miss them.”

...

“Me too.”

“I’m scawed, Fwankie.”

“It’ll be okay Alex.”

“They left us.”

Here the smaller child, too small for his age, started crying, and his brother’s heart squeezed painfully in his chest.

“Don’t be sad.”

“But- *hiccup* what if- *sob* what if you l-leave m-m-me,” he couldn’t hold it in anymore, and horrible sobs wrecked Alex’s small frame.

Tears spilled from Francis’ eyes, too, and terror seized him. He pulled his little brother in close, chest to chest, and squeezed as tightly as he could.

“I’m never leaving you!”

“D-d-do y-you *sniffle* pwomise?”

“I promise.”

“I’m scawed, Fwankie.”

“Don't be scared. I won't let anything happen to you.”

“Do you pwomise?”

“Of course! I’m your big brother. That’s what big brothers do.”

“But what about when we get oldeh and what if-”

“It doesn't matter what happens. I’m never leavin’ you. Ever.”

“Pinky pwomise?”

“Pinky promise.”

Their pinkies locked around each other, and they smiled matching gap-toothed smiles, smiles so wide Francis’ eyes shut in joy, eyes swollen from tears and from fears and from being too young for the weight heaped upon him. When he opened his eyes, Alex was gone. He was surrounded by an open field, and the sky was grey and filled with clouds; fog built around him, rushing in, suffocating him. He turned in a circle in the grass and his eyes landed on…

Oh.

Alex wasn’t gone.

He was underneath Francis.

The gravestone read: 

Alexander Joshua Moore

7/2/1982-8/21/2000

Grief overtook his body, and he sank to his knees, breath caught in his chest. Trapped, frozen, his eyes couldn’t leave the plain stone marker. 

A rustle in the grass behind him caught his ears, and he twisted to face the noise, seeing a tall, lean man with wavy light brown hair walking away from him, hands tucked into his pockets.

“Alex?”

Francis ran.

He ran after the man, ran as fast as he could, but it was like sprinting through a non-Newtonian fluid; the harder he pushed, the slower he moved, and the further the man moved away from him.

What began as a soft question soon turned into a throat-tearing howl: “ Alex? Alex! ALEX!!! AL-”

“-ex!”

THUMP THUMP

Francis awoke in a sweaty, tangled heap on the ground next to his bed, early dawn light trickling in through the bedroom windows; the first morning after Damian ‘moved in’. The first time he’d slept in it since he and Julie started… not fighting , exactly. 

It didn’t matter what it was called. None of it mattered.

He stood slowly, pulling himself to his feet, and sat back on the bed trying to catch his breath. By now, Julie would’ve had something snide to say about his movements waking her, but her side of the bed was quiet, and…

Empty. 

I wonder if she slept as poorly as I did.

Alex. I’m sorry.

I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you.

Head in his hands, tears burned salty tracks down his cheeks.

Chapter Text

What the fuck.

That’s my initial reaction when I wake up (too early; I swear I can see the line above my eyebrow deepening with every passing day) and Gabrielle, Darcy’s angel baby boo, explains her scheme to me across the breakfast table (covered in danishes [bribes], with a french press filled with some expensive bullshit coffee Darcy special ordered) while Darcy sits next to her looking vaguely uncomfortable.

Is it discomfort she feels? Or is the satisfaction of being a traitor?

My face is perfectly composed: smiling slightly, forehead creased in gentle confusion but not outright dismissal, looking into the mug of coffee in my hands (it reads: Le’s Be In Love; sappier than I would expect of Darcy’s dishes; next, I’ll find a ‘i’m a cuddwy bunny uwu’ throw pillow; kill me ) as if I’m shy or something.

It is TOO EARLY for this bullshit.

“You…” internally I'm rolling my eyes, HARD, but externally I maintain the facade. “You asked the Moores to host me, and they said yes? Oh, gosh,” I say, and want to shoot myself for saying ‘gosh’ out loud, “isn't that too much of an imposition? I mean, Fr- Dr. Moore already saved my life. I think the family has done enough.” 

I sip the coffee that slips down slow like molten malice.

“Damian, it’s so thoughtful of you to be concerned about that, but Julie already said she and Francis were thrilled about it, and I really feel that it will be a good opportunity for all of us to come together as a community and tie up loose ends.” Gabrielle sips her coffee, practically white from all the cream and sugar and nonsense she poured into it, and I wish I could sense something about her that was off, sense something untoward, any inkling that she doesn't believe the bullshit she spouts, but she comes off as utterly genuine. An utterly genuine cryptid, but still.

I mean, who does that??

Gross.

Hard eye roll.

What the fuck even is this morning?

“Darcy-”

“No,” she interrupts. “You know it’s against corporates-”

If she says ‘assimilation directives’, I’m going to scream.

“-assimilation directives-”

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

“-for company personnel to live together off of the official Fraggle campus. Studies show that members of an out-group are less likely to integrate into the in-group if they have other members of that out-group to bond with.”

I’d strangle her if I could, but then how would I finish the project? Plus, she’d probably kill me before I took two steps.

Darcy is actually kinda scary, and that’s part of her charm.

Gabrielle lays a freckled hand on top of Darcy’s, and butts in.

I struggle to suppress a smirk.

Hohoho, big mistake, Pastor.

“I think what Darcy is trying to say,” Gabrielle starts, and oh my GOD I wish I were here to see their fight after this. Gabrielle trying to speak for Darcy? Darcy is gonna be so MAD. “-is that it’s better for everyone if you stay with the Moores. I know that being accepted into the town is really important to you two, and after the miscommunication with Julie and Francis a while back, things have been a little bit... tense. This would help smooth things all over, and would be a great opportunity for Francis to work on himself, his marriage, and his relationship with the community. And I know those things are all really important to him.”

I don’t manage to suppress a yawn. I must’ve blacked out somewhere in the middle, it was so boring, but I look at Darcy and she doesn’t look… she doesn’t look angry at Gabrielle. What?? She looks… I don’t know what the fuck that expression is, I’ve never seen it on her before. Kinda smiley? Kinda calm?

Whatever it is, I hate it. Add it to the list of things to deal with later.

Shit, now Gabby is looking at me like she sees something about me, like she’s figuring me out or some garbage nonsense. I quickly smile sheepishly, apologize for yawning, and excuse myself to get ready for church.

Me. Damian Glass. Getting ready for church.

What is this world coming to?

Chapter Text

Darcy wanted to wash all of my clothes from last night, but I wouldn’t let her touch Frankie’s sweatshirt. It smells like him, and I want to keep it smelling like him for as long as possible. Who knows? Maybe when this is all over, I’ll build a shrine to our love, a museum of everything we went through to be together, and this sweatshirt will be in the center.

“That’s the most romantic thing I've ever heard.” 

Why would he do that, knowing how much Frankie means to me? Knowing that Frankie is my only motivation? If anything happens to Frankie, not only will he not get what he wants, I will use every dollar and ounce of power at my disposal to destroy him. 

Anyway, Darcy is driving us to church (ew) and I’m dressed in a nice pair of khakis and light blue button up shirt from the go-bag she so thoughtfully supplied, and uhhhhh I wouldn't’ say that I’m nervous exactly, just… uncomfortable. Let’s just say that me and churches don’t have a great history. They’re stupid, delusional places filled with stupid delusional dangerous people. That’s the long and short of it. Anyway…

The church is a straight shot down the street, what with everything being so fucking close together in this hell-hole, and Darcy wanted to walk but I convinced her I’m too weak and sore from almost burning up, and that I need her to drive me.

More likely, she just wanted me to stop whining and complaining, but I got what I wanted, so I don't care. The car is silent as we drive the three minutes to the church, and it feels weird, sitting with Darcy in silence when we’re not developing some Fraggle project or getting drunk. Usually, I'm chattering about something frivolous or teasing her, and she’s rebuking my frivolity, rebuffing my teases.

There are a couple of possibilities about what’s going on with this entire situation, and they are predicated on a few assumptions and unknown variables. First: why would Frankie be okay with me staying with him? After rejecting him last night in no uncertain terms (and breaking my own heart and sickening myself, but hey, who cares about how I feel, right?), why would he welcome me into his home? Is that something that the Frankie I know would do?

The answer is no, that’s not something he’d do. Which leads me tot:

Does he know I’m staying with them? Does he know I’m going to be sleeping under the same roof as him, just down the hall, close enough to-

...

A n y w a y, if he doesn’t know, then this is some harebrained Julie scheme. I bet she feels so clever for it, too. Right now she’s probably flipping her long blonde hair over a shoulder and laughing into a white gloved hand: Hohoho, my lover and husband under the same roof, I shall cuckold one with the other, how exciting .

Fuck, she’s so boring and predictable, but I will continue to do whatever it takes to end up with Frankie. And if that means sleeping with his wife, then let’s get to fucking!

I roll my eyes as we pass gross, picturesque houses with green lawns in front, complete with white picket fences. Who would want something like that? I always knew that was never in the cards for me, so I never considered wanting it. But sitting here, in a car driving to a church in Nowhere, Georgia, pushing the wheels of my big romance machine forward, I think that maybe something gross and quaint like a small house with a fence out front, a home with Frankie beside me…

Maybe a place like this, a thing like that, maybe it’s not impossible, and maybe if it weren’t impossible, it’s something I can almost see myself considering, maybe even wanting.

The gravel parking lot is already half-full when Darcy pulls the car into it, families running every which way, and I push things from my mind that make my chest ache.

I have a job to do.

Chapter Text

I’m steered through the parking lot, into the church, and pushed down onto a pew at the front of the room. Darcy and Gabrielle stand in front of me, looking at each other with googly eyes, and speaking quietly and intensely. It would be cute if I wasn't starting to hate Gabby for taking Darcy’s attention. Hey! I just was almost burnt alive kind of! What about me?!? But no, Darcy only has eyes for Gabby who only has eyes for her.

I mean, if I look at them objectively, they make a handsome couple, so I get it. Darcy is at least a foot shorter than the pastor, dressed in a tailored grey suit with a subtle crimson pinstriping that cinches at the waist and highlights the warmth of her skin, whereas Gabrielle is in a grey button down shirt with with a small silver cloud pattern, sleeves rolled up, shirt untucked and perfectly fitted across her hips, dark blue pants underneath, and her bright red, short cropped hair shines like a beacon. The two of them stand out among the throng of churchgoers who vye for the pastor’s attention, and Darcy cracks a rare smile.

I’m... 

Deeply annoyed. I look across the crowd for a head of forcibly straightened black hair, but since I’m sitting and people are milling all over, I can’t get a good look, but I don’t want to be obvious about it so I stop my search, sit forward, and continue my quiet contemplation.

If Frankie doesn’t know that Julie agreed to them hosting me, then he will be shocked, flummoxed, and flabbergasted when the pastor announces the ‘Moore’s’ intentions towards me. He might panic, and that comes with its own set of problems. So do I warn him? I’ve been debating warning him since I was informed of the scheme this morning, but if I warn him too early, he might…

He might say no.

And I really want this to happen. It’s all very exciting, and I am usually so bored.

Not telling him is a morally grey area, but I am not one to ponder morals; that's why I have so much more fun than everyone else.

The lights overhead flicker and people go to find their seats. Gabrielle squeezes Darcy’s hand and throws out one more smile before she leaves to get ready for her big show or performance or whatever it’s called. What? She gets on a stage, discusses ancient poetry and myths, and gets paid for it. Oh, and wears a costume! That makes her an actor. 

I turn my head to tease Darcy about her big old crush on the nerdy thespian, when my ears pick up polite laughter from the back of the church.

It’s quiet, and I wouldn’t have noticed if my head wasn’t turned at that exact angle, but I’d know that laughter anywhere. I hate whoever is making him laugh, of course, but I am also relieved to know that he’s finally here. 

Everyone quiets as Pastor Gabrielle comes out onto the stage in her big green robe (what denomination even is this church??) and stands behind a podium with a giant open gold-leafed book (maybe the bible?) sitting on top. She stands there thoughtfully (she’s really committed to the role! I should get her autograph), closes the big old book with gravity, comes to the edge of the stage and…

…

I hold back a sight as she proclaims that she wants to have a “conversation” with us, and sits down on the edge of the stage. 

I must’ve blacked out after that from boredom, cuz the next thing I hear is, “...today I want to honor a very Good Samaritan…” and I hit send on the text I’ve been debating sending all day.

(Read: like four hours at most)

Fuck.

I should’ve sent that earlier.

Fuck.

My body is numb as I stand and walk to Gabrielle when she calls me. There’s a big bashful, humble smile on my face, but internally I feel sick.

Fucking fuck.

I should’ve warned him. I should've called him as soon as I found out what the pastor was planning; I should’ve given him the choice. Isn’t that the whole fucking point of all of this? To give him a choice and for him to choose me ?

I should’ve realized earlier that Julie would lie to Gabrielle. Even if Frankie had agreed to it, it was probably at Julie’s pestering and abuse, and I should’ve called him or texted him or somethinged him. I guess I’m just so used to not being able to talk to him that I didn’t consider...

It’s too late now, though, so all I do is stand there, smiling like an empty-headed fool, as Gabrielle spews the bullshit I fed her about how Frankie came to reconcile and then saved my life.

I mean… okay. I guess it wasn’t actually bullshit. But I did leave out the part where he rutted against me and swallowed my fingers so beautifully as I-

Frankie walks down the aisle, and I want to kick myself for my weakness; regardless, I can’t stop my cheeks from heating.

I’m breathless as his cheekbones and jaw catch the light filtering in through the stained glass on either side of the church, and he walks to me like a dark angel lit by golden sunlight. My own personal Lightbringer. The white button down he’s wearing stretches across his broad shoulders and my mouth fills with drool as images of him flexing and tearing through the fabric flit behind my eyes. The shirt’s tucked into black slacks that can’t hide his firm, thick-

Body, of course. His powerful hips and thighs, a body made for destruction and creation, a man capable of so much more than he knows.

I want to worship him.

With my tongue.

Anyway...

Here he is, walking down the aisle to stand next to the pastor with me, standing here in front of the entire congregation, and I can’t meet his eyes or even look at him, my smile plastered to my face, cheeks on absolute fire , and the part of me that wondered earlier about white picket fences and little homes filled with love is now thinking about another forbidden topic, one where we’re exchanging vows openly, no need for secrecy or deception; one where he stands there looking as handsome as he does today, except he’s in a black tux, and I’m wearing something handsome and expensive, and he holds my hands and promises me forever.

I can’t fucking look at him right now. I can’t look at him when I’m like this. It is the worst kind of discomfort, but my gratitude for it is endless.

Chapter Text

I’m in my room (read: Darcy’s spare bedroom) ordering necessities online and over the phone for immediate delivery to my new address (read: the Moore Manor). I’ll need new contacts asap (the ones in my eyes are a little scratchy and I don’t have spares), clothes, my various moisturizers and creams, my…

Oh my god. My poor toys . They all burned. I say a small eulogy for my firm and loyal sex toys, when Darcy clears her throat from the doorway and I jump ten feet.

“Darcy! Hey. How’s it going?” I smooth my hair against my head, acting very cool. Shit, my hair needs dyeing soon. How am I going to get up to Macon to go to the salon without either Moore knowing? Will I have to… buy box dye? 

No, I can’t do that. Germaine would kill me if they found out. I’ll just have to scheme up a solution; a Damian Special, if you will.

“Damian.”

Oh right, Darcy!

“Oh right, Darcy, what’s up?”

She leans in the doorway with her arms crossed, a little squiggly line between her eyebrows from her super serious super cute frown.

“I talked to corporate.”

Fuck.

“Oh, really! And how is Syphus these days?”

“He’s not happy, and he’s pushing to add more team members again. Whatever magic you worked when you were at headquarters… I think an apartment building burning down undid it.”

“From what I’ve heard, it was only a little burned, and only in a couple of floors.”

“ Damian.”

“And I’ve also heard that the damage should be repaired very soon, so if you could translate that into corporate speak and add in a few ‘fuck you’s’ to Syphus, I’d be highly appreciative.” I smile at her with my megawatt shit eating grin, and her mouth trembles as she suppresses a smile. Darcy rolls her eyes at me,and I know I've effectively broken the tension.

“Look, asshole, I don’t want corporate sending anyone else either, okay? I like the way things are going here-”

“Oh I’ll bet you do.”

“Shut up. Syphus also mentioned… sending…”

If she says his name I’m going to scream.

“... Todd.”

God fucking dammit bullshit cockmongering son of a bitch.

“He has the personality of a baby’s half-eaten saltine.”

“Yes.”

“He’s literally the worst.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve done everything in my power to keep him off of this project.”

“It looks inevitable at this point, Damian. I don’t like him any more than you do, but this is a Fraggle special operation, and if Fraggle wants to send a Fraggle employee to assist, there’s nothing us two Fraggle employees can do about it.”

She continues with a sigh: “We signed contracts, and corporate pays the bills. They own us. You get that, right?”

I don’t like the implications or reality of a black woman saying a corporation owns her, or me, or anyone else for that matter, and that’s a huge reason why I’ve been-

...

That laptop better be fucking safe.

But now isn’t the time to ruminate on that.  

“Syphus initially expressed confusion at you staying with that couple, but I explained about how it fit into-”

I’m going to contact the manufacturer that I get my tacky plaques from and immediately order bingo cards to fill out whenever Darcy mentions-

“-corporate's assimilation directives.”

“Darcy, can I ask a favor?”

“What?”

“Can you please just shoot me next time instead of saying those horrible fucking words to me?”

“You're such an asshole.”

“Music to my ears, Darcy Darling.”

She really might shoot me one day, and that would be deeply hilarious.

As long as I survive, of course.

“Um…”

Darcy said ‘um’. 

This is not a drill. Is she broken?? What’s wrong???

I’m a little nervous as I reply: “What is it Darcy?”

“Just… be careful. Gabs is excited about you staying with those people , but I don’t get a good feeling from either of them. I think... the doctor even hunted me down when I was visiting Gabs at the church. He stopped me as I was leaving her office and… I just don’t get a good feeling, alright?”

“What did he say?”

I’m on the edge of the bed in anticipation, hands gripping my knees tight.

“He was sketchy, nervous, and asked about where you were.”

He asked after me . I want to giggle.

Darcy continues: “I told him you were absolutely coming back and that he better not fuck with you, or our lawyers would bury him six feet deep.”

Insert joke about him not fucking me here.

“Awwwwwwww, you care about me.”

“Fuck off.” 

She leaves me to finish my preparations, but in all honesty, I feel a little bit warmer, a little bit lighter.

Darcy cares about me.

Frankie asked after me.

Now if I can just keep that psycho from burning down more essential things, everything will really be coming up Damian.

Chapter Text

Few cars pass going the opposite direction, filling the car with flashes from their headlights. It’s dark, and drizzling, and I’m exhausted.

It’s been exhausting .

What, the last few hours? The weekend? The last two weeks spent at headquarters, seemingly pointlessly since Syphus is just going to send that fuckface anyway? 

My whole entire fucking life?

Your pick.

...

“Damian.”

“Yes, babe?”

“Do you think he knows? Or suspects anything? Did he really go to Macon to-”

Breath catches in her throat as my hand reaches out and tucks a stray blonde curl behind her ear; the kind of curl made with an iron and product. The same kind of curl I’m sure she berates Frankie for having naturally.

“Trust me, babe, he knows nothing,” I reassure her, slipping my fingers down her thin neck and under the strap of the little sundress she’s wearing, sliding it off her shoulder. “Oops.”

She rolls her eyes and smiles, and I know she’s taken with me. Good. Let’s keep it that way.

“You must’ve said something to him, he came to me entirely repentant, said he was utterly wrong,” I say, stroking down her shoulder, down her arm, pulling her right hand from the steering wheel and interlocking our fingers. “He was so apologetic. Said he was so sorry, said he trusted you completely and…” I kiss her hand so I can put off saying the words a bit longer, because they hurt so much to say out loud. “...and that he has a drinking problem, and I don’t know why you stay with him, babe. He’s so weak.”

The only way that I can stand to say these words is that I know it will all be worth it. I’m giving her excuses, voicing things she’s expressed to me before, ways she feels about her passionless husband.

Passionless, Julie? Really? The man devotes his life to you and your kids, buys you that house, buys you all those bullshit appliances, puts up with your bullshit attitude and abuse, gives you so much money that falls through your hands like water, supports your “girls weekends” in the “city”, which we both know is just an excuse for your philandering; there were other men before me, that’s how I knew she’d be so easy; that’s how I knew signing up for the same yoga class she goes to, showing off my body, my muscles, my perfect face and charm would be all it took to snatch her up.

Ha ha. Snatch.

If Frankie is passionless, then Julie is no better than a corpse, dull and lifeless; no, a corpse is better than her because at least it feeds the earth, at least it gives something back.

She’s pulling over now onto a little side road off the highway, into the trees, into a little nook that flashes with light when cars pass, barely concealed, but it’s enough for her purposes. 

We don’t have a lot of time: I don’t want to shove his wife’s infidelity in his face on the first night; that’s a great way to force him to action, but what if that action is him pushing me away, closing in on himself and never coming out? I couldn’t stand it. He’s opening up to me, albeit slowly, like a cute little clam, and I need that progress to clam-tinue.

I chuckle under my breath, forgetting myself for a moment.

“Hmm?”

Fuck.

“I’m only thinking about how fun it’ll be to have you all to myself under that roof.” 

I pull her to me, wrapping her arm around my neck, seatbelts digging into us both. The engine is still running, car in park, as I smoothly unlock her belt and pull her small body over the console and into my lap. One arm wraps around her waist, crashing her hips and chest down into mine, and her gasp tells me I’m making the right moves. Her dress hitches up, bunching at our stomachs as she moves against me, grinding down onto my…

Ah, shit, I’m soft.

Well, it’s to be expected. It is Julie, after all.

Get this over quickly, Glass. Get this over with and go to him .

I crush her mouth to mine with a hand behind her head, and snake my other hand up underneath her, between our bodies, palming her, feeling her wetness building. Now listen: regardless of what you might see in porn or read in shitty fiction, fingering is not the fastest way to make a woman orgasm, and it is definitely not the cleanest.

My elbow is up at my side as I hold her mound at the proper angle, starting gently massaging all over with a flat hand until she’s warmed up. Then, I focus on the only part that matters in these… matters. I find her clit easily through the thin underwear; she waxes, and is small with inverted lips, so shifting the fabric to mould around her form and rubbing the top of the prominent nub with my middle finger while my ring and pointer fingers rub the surrounding area is just... a matter of logic. It's a simple ITTT problem: if I move this way, and she likes it, then I keep doing  that. 

I’m kissing her the way I know she likes, rubbing her the way I know she likes, pushing it faster as her breathing picks up, but keeping a continuous speed once it reaches a certain velocity; if I go faster, the climax won’t keep building and will instead become too much sensation, and I need this over as quickly as possible. 

-

Aaaaaand there we go. It’s finally over. She collapses against me and I kiss drily up her neck, moving her hair out of the way, over her eyebrows, down her nose, finally ending on her lips where I hold her for a long moment, grinding up once against her sensitivity so she’s moaning into my mouth.

-

We finally pull off onto the exit I know goes to Frankie’s home, and I’m oh-so glad she never asks why I didn’t answer any of her texts or calls for two weeks or tell her I was back.

Chapter Text

You know what? 

The house is fucking spooky, that’s what. 

It’s too big, situated on a small hill overlooking the road in a little clearing, dense woods on either side, big lawn in the front and back, and to get to the neighbor’s house to borrow a cup of sugar you’d have to go down the driveway, go down the road a bit, then up that long driveway and knock on the door. 

It’s pitch black outside, stars and moon covered by clouds, and the wet leaves of the trees smack together unnervingly, like the clapping of soggy drowning victims, eyes bulging and red.

Yikes. It’s a big yikes.

Back to the house: everything is wood, the ceilings are super fucking tall, there’s tacky rugs everywhere, and almost no lights are on. I’m sure it’s drafty, too. A house this old, there’s bound to be drafts.

And ghosts.

Good thing I don’t believe in those, otherwise I’d be pretty spooked. 

There’s no way he’s happy here. I can’t wait until the day I can finally take him away from all of this and give him what he really wants.

Frankie is nowhere to be found, and I interrupt Julie’s explanation of the bathroom and towels while we’re standing in my new bedroom, one of the many guest rooms (many empty rooms; it’s SPOOKY)  on the second floor, to ask on his whereabouts.

“Oh, he’s… workin’ late in his office,” she says. “Downstairs,” she adds.

Huh. That’s a weird thing to leave a pause in the middle of a sentence about, so I think it through. A family doctor, on a Sunday night, working late in his office, after his wife probably had a hand in his public manipulation, alongside the man who he made cum with his hand. 

What could he possibly be working on that’s more engrossing than any of that?

Is he avoiding me, perhaps?

...

There isn’t enough information to continue this logic chain further, so I abandon it to prevent pointless brain wandering. I’ve had all day to think of my next moves, and I’ll have all night to fine-tune.

“ A~ah ,” I say with much weight, as though I mean something by it, and she nods her head and rolls her eyes, chuckling conspiratorially. 

This whole charade is exhausting.

Julie stands too close to me, looking up at me, smiling then looking away, and I know what that’s cue for. I sweep her into my arms, dipping her back and kissing her deeply. She sighs into my mouth.

“I can’t wait to do this every day, babe.”

“Oh, Damian,” Julie says, blushing, every breath pushing her soft abundance into my hard chest. 

Sorry, honey, but this isn’t your romance novel.

“You have to go,” I say, releasing her, turning away as if I’m full of angst and can hardly bear it.

But, you know, in a super genuine-seeming way.

She adjusts her sundress a final time, tiptoes over to me, leaving a single kiss on my perfectly smooth, perfectly square jaw, and whispers ‘Good night’ on her way out the door, closing it behind her.

Fucking hell, the melodrama of it all.

What a fucking spoiled princess.

-

I’m just returning to my room from the shared guest bathroom in the hall when voices drift up the stairs. I hear him, finally, and it’s a balm to my soul.

His voice is everything; the depth of it, warmth of it, the way it vibrates my skin, the lilt of his words in that endearing accent, or dialect, or whatever you want to call it. Pleasure courses through me, stirring me, and that, too, is a relief after pretending with Julie. The way I react to him is something I could never fake, and after a lifetime of pretending, I’m grateful for the proof that I’m a real boy.

I stroke myself, hiding behind the cracked door of my new bedroom. What’re they...

Ah, they’re arguing. Fuck, that feels good.

“Your refusal of your husbandly duties is not my fault, and I will NOT have it gettin’ out there! Karen Archambeau hates that I got on the rotary board, and she’d love to use this against me. So you’re stayin’ in the bedroom until he leaves, and that’s final.”

“I’m sorry, Jules.”

“Let’s just go to sleep,” she’s saying soothingly now, and there’s a soft smacking noise that I recognize as a kiss.

Ew.

A heavy door shuts at the end of this very hallway, and I flop onto the white sheets of the four poster bed in this big, white room, still-hard dick pointing at the canopy.

Huh. Well isn’t that interesting?

Failing at your ‘husbandly duties,’ Frankie? What ever could that mean?

Chapter Text

Francis trips his way into the kitchen, shocked by the vision there. His hand flies out for stability, palm smacking against the threshold, and he says nothing.

With his back turned to Francis (the intruder) a man stands in front of the sink sipping from a mug, looking out the garden window upon the vast lawn, and the forest in the distance; a man tall but not taller than Francis, and yet dressed in Francis’ clothes and dripping in sweat.

Those are...

Mine. 

A shirt that had once been dark blue but faded to a soft blue-grey, with holes at the hems and a worn-in softness that only time could provide; Francis knew on the front that it would read Georgia State , and he also recognized the seafoam green Lululemon running shorts that constituted half of Julie’s Christmas gift to him last year (the other half being, of course, that horrible Fraggle computer in his study); shorts that on Francis were too short and too tight, barely coming over his hips, and digging into his stomach, the cut out v’s on the sides exposing too much thigh.

“They’ll loosen up as you run more! They’re… aspirational!” Julie said after Francis couldn’t convince her with words that they didn’t fit, and so had to show her the truth in front of her own eyes.

He stood there, modeling them for her in embarrassment, baring too much of his body, uncomfortable under her critical gaze; Julie wanted him to start running, saying she’d worked hard to maintain her college body, and he should, too...

Regardless of the fact that he always took more easily to lifting weights than running the mile;

Regardless of the fact that an old football injury hurt his knee and risked worsening anytime he pushed himself farther than a short jog;

Regardless of the fact that he hadn’t thought anything was wrong with his body or the weight he’d gained since becoming a father and working as a doctor. His priorities were different now, he had more important things to worry about than subcutaneous fat, and as a fucking doctor he knew that as long as he ate moderately, stayed active, didn’t drink or smoke to excess, and monitored his health (which he was an expert at, one might even say a professional at, one might even say he was so professional as to have a fucking degree in the subject), he was doing all he could; the rest were up to genetics and God.

And yet, regardless of all of these things; of the statistics behind the health benefits of subcutaneous fat; the understanding that obesity was invented for insurance companies to charge more and in fact provided protection against some illnesses; knowing that everyone’s bodies were different and that everyone’s health was different; and that common narratives around weight and dieting and health ignored people who were disabled, chronically ill, or unable financially, physically, or emotionally to make it a priority; and the fact that it was in fact NO ONE’S BUSINESS what one person did with their body; and that weight did not define a person’s value…

Regardless of all of this, shame crawled up his spine in pins and needles, and he felt even more exposed than the incredibly short shorts made him. For a while after, he did join Julie in her juice cleanses (despite that fact that they’re bullshit), in trying out a keto diet (despite the evidence that it didn't work except for a small subset of the population), in criticizing himself for yet another thing, and another, and another, ad infinitum.

But when he sees Damian in these clothes (shorts that fit him perfectly as though made for him, the color complimenting his long that look as though they’ve never seen the sun, upper thighs bared; shirt sticking to his back, highlighting the dips and valleys of his dancer’s physique)... when Francis’ gaze roams over the body before him, it isn’t with a critical eye, comparing the two men; comparing where Damian was firm and Francis was soft; finding Francis’ supposed flaws that Julie called out so easily... it was with appreciation . 

Appreciation that came with acknowledging Damian’s danger: his body a manufactured weapon, his tongue sharp enough to cut marble, and his intellect that Francis could always see slinking behind his deep blue eyes.

Francis looked across the kitchen upon Damian’s form not with jealousy, but with hunger.

Thin fingers raked through damp, short blonde hair, pressing it flat.

“Good morning.”

Damian didn’t turn to face him.

The distance between them felt wider even than two nights previous when Damian said…

He said…

“We can’t do this.”

“Are you just going to stand there, Fr- ...Doc? The coffee will get cold.”

Francis flinches, and finally steps into the chrome-covered kitchen, fridge happily beeping at his presence, and approaches the dangerous item sitting on the kitchen island: a single mug filled with black liquid, proclaiming Hapy fatrs’ da!! in loopy, hesitant scrawl; a Father’s Day gift from his children. So few things in this house were truly Francis’; the things his children gave him were saved endlessly, gifting them a history, a past, in a way Francis never had; his own parents never saved anything of his or Alex’s.

He hardly had anything of Alex’s left.

“Why are you here?”

Damian still doesn’t turn, but evasively answers the query: “You mean in a cosmic ‘why are we here?’ way or something more specific?”

Silence follows, and Damian turns to end it. 

Francis was right; Georgia State encircles Damian’s chest in white letters, his right hand holding a yellow mug with a cartoon rubber ducky on it, the bottom edge chipped, the upper rim faded to almost white where lips touched over and over and over again. “ Quack quack is duck for I love you ” the mug proclaimed cheerfully; an old birthday present from George. 

The man’s body is just as deadly from the front as the back, soft shirt clinging to his taut stomach, running shorts loose at the leg but tight at the front, conforming to his narrow hips so completely that the body underneath can not be misunderstood.

The laser focus of blue eyes runs over Francis’ body, and he feels it moving across his skin like the ants that crawled over him when he was six and lying half-passed out under an oak tree, locked out of the house in the hot Georgia summer by his parents.

Francis looks away, but Damian’s already seen.

“Fr- Doc, were you crying?”

The hard line of Francis’ mouth cracks open.

“Don’t call me that.”

Damian smirks behind the yellow duck cup before taking a sip. The chipped mug clacks to the counter, and Damian steps to the island, staring at the man across from him dressed in khakis and a long sleeved button up, looking ever-ready to play doctor.

“Are we really doing this again? I-”

“Call me what you want. That’s all,” Francis drawled, the a of all pulled out of his mouth like taffy, avoiding Damian’s deep blue gaze. He ignores the mug on the island, grabs his keys and wallet off the counter, and leaves the house through the garage door before Damian could stop him.

“Have a nice day-” trails after him out the door, following gently like smoke, a whisper cut off with a slam, but not before its conclusion reaches Francis’ ears:

“-Frankie.”

Chapter Text

“We’re fucking late, Damian.”

“Yes, and I’m so utterly, endlessly sorry about that, Darcy Darling.”

Darcy’s car bumped along the dark backroad to the construction site, sun beaming in through the crossed branches overhead like an accusation. Today was another testing day, and the ionic capacitor network wasn’t sending or receiving data at the rate it was supposed to. Thus, the pair were headed deep into the woods to figure that shit out.

“If you knew you needed a ride, why didn’t you just fucking say so? Yesterday you said one of them would do it.” Her voice was tight, grinding over the electric violins coming through the car speakers, and Damian felt the venom behind it.

“Well…. See the thing is… I didn’t know that I’d need a ride. I had supposed that Fran-”

“Oh-fucking-no. Did he ditch you or something? If he hurt you, I’ll gut him like a fish.”

Damian laughed uncomfortably, rolling his eyes.

“Darcy, dear, you’ve never fished a day in your life. Is that a phrase your little Irish biscuit taught you? -Besides, you might chip your manicure; of course, then you could shorten the fingers on your left hand. You know. For your wee biscuit .”

(That last part was absolutely spoken with a horrible Irish accent.)

She looked over at him, her eyes wide, then fixed them once again on the road, grimacing.

“Shut up, Damian.”

“Oh ho ho, someone’s feeling embarrassed,” Damian smirked, topic successfully derailed.

“Just get a ride tomorrow.”

Or not-so successfully.

“Of course.”

Chapter Text

It is 10:47am... 

“-and that’s why vaccines are poison!!!”

It is 10:47am, and I am weary. Mrs. Karen Archambeau, rotary board member, thorn in my wife’s side, and avid purveyor of flat-out wrong information regarding most medicine, finishes screaming, a drop of her spittle cooling on my cheek, the thin lips set in her harsh, artificially tan face finally stilling into a grimace.

Oh, no. She’s caught me. I spent hundreds of thousands of dollars and a near-decade of my life to become a…

A poisoner.

I am so, so weary, barely managing to hold the sigh inside of my lungs, the weight of it as much as a bowling ball, black resin sitting in my gut, taking up all the space there. Mrs. Archambeau has been screaming about how Big Pharma is using the US Government to inject mind control substances into the children of America, and usually I nod and smile and gently urge her towards the light, trying to strike a balance between sympathy and authority, but…

I just can’t do it anymore.

Little Amelia sits in a blue dress on top of the examination table, kicking her legs out, clearly agitated, but stills immediately when her mother gives her a look. I well know what that look means, and the threat behind it.

I do not much like Mrs. Karen Archambeau.

“Mrs. Ar-”

“And so you SEE , Mr. Moore, I will NOT be allowing you to infect my daughter with-”

Gently, ever so gently, I touch her covered arm, the stiff brown pleather of her jacket slippery under my fingers. She looks down at the offending digits, rage sparking behind her eyes, and I withdraw, returning my hand to my side. 

“In order to go on the field trip to the Piedmont National Wildlife Refuge up north, Amelia must receive these vaccines.”

“But-!”

“Vaccines she was supposed to get months ago before the start of the school year. Do you want her to miss this trip?” 

“Of course not! It is vital that she be involved in as many trips, events, and clubs as possible to fill up her beauty pageant applications. She-” here she rambles on, and I let her, for a while at least; it is not my place to parent her child, but from what George has told me, Amelia does not much like these pageants, and she does not much like the spectacle that her mother insists on being.

It is in this not-dissimilar realm of thought, I believe, that Karen’s dislike of my own daughter comes in. You see, George and Amelia have always been fast friends; she admires George for her wildness, brashness, and untamed compassion. She sees how wild George is allowed to be, an innate wildness that is especially important to be encouraged in young girls living in a world that would crush that spark, and she is horrified at the view. 

It’s funny, in a way, because if George and William had flipped personalities, if she was contained, particular, tidy, fastidious in the way of her younger brother, Karen would raise her up as exemplary, and encourage her daughter into a friendship. However, my children could not be more dissimilar, excepting in their passion. 

I am so proud of them. They are themselves in ways that I could never be.

“Mrs. Archambeau,” I interject once again.

“ Frank ,” she replies.

Usually, I wouldn't interrupt her, and I don’t know that I ever have; it isn’t on me to convince her the sky’s blue. But a little girl's health is at risk, and the lives of the children around her who can't be vaccinated for honestly valid medical reasons are at risk, and I just can't… I just can't be silent anymore.

I feel the walls I've built, impenetrable walls that have kept me safe, if not always happy, crack, and my edges, once so contained, begin to feather out through the rubble, like a nosebleed on tissue paper; like smoke through a grate.

"I am so sorry to interrupt, Mrs. Archambeau. I completely understand your position and your concern for your daughter; however, these vaccinations are mandatory, and as of yet there is no religious or moral exemption, and so you do not have any legal precedent with which to put these off any longer." 

I've said this part before, but I have to say it again. My littlest big hospital has received many letters from many different firms, all of which I've called back personally and discussed the impossibility of Mrs. Archambeau’s request. And one by one, they fire her as a client and she goes to someone new. 

I think that, based on the length of time that has transpired since the last letter we received, she has finally run out of lawyers. 

“If Amelia does not get her vaccinations today, I am also concerned that she won’t be allowed to continue in school, and it is my understanding that such an absence in education also does not look good on certain applications.” 

This feels manipulative, and maybe it is, but… 

Something’s gotta give.

After a long silence, she responds through gritted teeth:

“ Fine .”

I move ahead, as quickly as possible, comforting Amelia, distracting her, making her laugh when the needle goes in so she doesn’t feel it, and before she even realizes, she’s received all of her inoculations and has a cool Spongebob bandaid in place. Mrs. Archambeau this whole time has sat in the corner, drilling holes into my back with her eyes, but this is a discomfort I can bear. 

There are many things in this world I can bear, and Mrs. Archambeau’s non-benign maleficence is one of them; a little girl getting sick by my own malfeasance is not.

“Alright, Amelia,” I smile at her warmly, ruffling the top of her head in the same manner as I do to George. “You’re all good. Go on up to the front with your mother, now, and I think that Maureen might have a sticker for you.” I help her off the table, bowing like a gentleman, and she and her mother go to leave the little room with pink walls. 

At the last moment, Amelia already out the door but Mrs. Archambeau only half gone, the woman turns to me and says with vitriol:

“You’re a prick , Mr . Moore. Kiss my go to hell.”

...And she’s gone. I heave a heavy sigh of relief, the pressure in my chest releasing, and stand, thinking of my own (adoptive) mother. Her words come to me like a memory from the many times the ignorance of those around her got to be just a little too much:

“ Hay días tontos y tontos todos los días. There are stupid days, Francis, and people who are stupid every day. Make sure you’re never one of them, mijo .” Then she’d always pull me close, into her soft, strong arms, and even though she’s at least a full foot shorter than me, has been since I met her, I feel safe, and warm, and protected, caught up in the little family she and my (adoptive) father made for me.

I miss her, and feel guilty for distance that’s been between us for a while now, but I know that if I see them, talk to them for longer than five minutes, I’ll end up telling the truth about a lot things, and until I’m ready to be honest with myself , I don’t think I can be with them. I respect them too much, love them too much, to ever lie to them

I don’t know. Maybe I'm just being selfish. But maybe this selfishness is keeping me safe.

My hand goes to my pocket, resting the weight of my arm, and I realize that there is something missing, once again: one ring; ostentatious, ridiculous, and its absence dangerous.

Why isn’t anything ever just easy?

Chapter Text

“We can’t do this.”

I barely had him and he’s gone already; gone but still around, a devil that won’t give me what I… who won’t give, but won’t take, either; a hellish holding pattern. 

It’s only been one day; not even a full one, at that. What am I going to do a week from now? A month?

When is he leaving for good?

The breakroom, one of the few rooms used in this massive building, is bright, abuzz from the fluorescent lights overhead. It’s almost noon, and there has been an uncharacteristic abundance of patients today. Most days, on average, there are three, four, MAYBE five, RARELY ten, but today I haven’t even had time for a break due to the volume. I don’t have time for lunch right now (not that I could eat here, anyway, since Julie stopped packing my lunches; no more tuna fish sandwiches for me; I wish I meant it sarcastically, but the reliable humdrum of my life has evaporated, things are always in flux now, shaken up, and I am a little nostalgic for when things were easier), but I have time enough to take five minutes, drink a cup of coffee, breathe, and go back out there.

The knockoff Keurig (Maureen begged me for a real one, but she is not my wife; she can not bully me into fancy gadgets; though I did feel rather badly about denying her) spits steam through the tiny plastic cup’s body, jetting through the clump of grounds, finishing its journey out into the white mug waiting beneath. 

Not only do I not have my ring, I don’t have my white coat. Several of the patients today have been out-of-towners on hiking trips, wearing brand new, scuffed hiking gear, and when I walk into the only examination room available, they look a little confused; wearing a stethoscope around my neck helps, though, as does my calm demeanor. In residency, I was consistently given high marks in bedside manor; I think that maybe it’s ‘cause I genuinely want to help people, and I genuinely care about their comfort. It seemed as though some of my peers had different motives on our shared path, but that’s their business, not mine. Everyone has reasons for doing everything they do, and there are seven billion people on this planet; we will not be able to all understand each other all the time, and that is perfectly alright.

There are just a few people (one person) I wish I could understand better.

With a final squirt, the waiting mug is filled. It tastes… well, “passable” is being generous, but there's ‘nought I can do about it. There is no sugar or cream available, only aspartame and thick liquids that proclaim they are free of calories that I find to be free, as well, of edibility. Maureen is always trying one diet or another, low calorie this, high fat that, and scattered underneath the counter are the discarded bodies of all the different elements she’s tried to add to her coffee to make it palatable; to substitute caffeine for nutrients. 

I sit at the scratched table in the middle of the room where I’ve sat hundreds, no, thousands of times, and today, as it was Friday, as the day before that, it is free of crumbs. 

Am I a terrible husband if I admit that I have looked more forward to lunch at Jolene’s over the last weeks than I have missed my wife’s sandwiches? That I find a reuben, made by a cook who likes me, is better than a tuna sandwich made for me by someone who… what? Hates me? Finds me to be a disappointment? 

Things with Julie are strange, but then, everything is strange now. I’m no longer allowed to sleep in the office since… he is staying with us (when is he leaving?), and so I must lay next to her cold body and try to rest. 

My first night back in the marital bed, and I already had a nightmare. 

But is it really a nightmare when I get to see Alex?

Every glimpse is a blessing. 

Brrring brrrring

A buzzing, a sound from inside my pocket jolts me from my ruminations. It’s-

Well, shit. It’s Gabrielle. 

But of course it’s Gabrielle. It’s noon, and she knows I usually take my lunch then; she probably wants to know how things are going with-

Gulp

-with Damian.

I don't know how to answer that, or anything else she asks me. Julie didn't tell me about him staying with us before it was announced at church, and Damian only barely warned me enough that my panic spiked two seconds before it happened, although that did help a little bit, loathe as I am to admit it. Anything I have to say would either diminish me in her eyes, or be a lie, and I just can’t lie to her; I respect her too much.

The call goes to voicemail, and I breathe a sigh of relief. 

A sigh that turns to a choked cough when Maureen barges in.

Chapter Text

“Frank!”

“M-maureen! Yes? Am I needed?” The coffee cup taps to the table, barely drunk, and Francis’ body tenses in preparation to stand.

The chair next to him squeaked on the linoleum floor as Maureen slid it out, thunking down onto it and crossing her legs. She leaned towards him conspiratorially.

“So!” 

“So?”

“Tell me everything!”

Panic flooded Francis’ stomach.

“Tell you? About what?”

What does she know? What could she know?

“About what happened yesterday!”

“Yesterday?”

“Frank, are you being dense on purpose or do you really not know to what I am referring? At church! With you-know-who?!”

Francis chilled as all the blood rushed from his face.

“Oh.”

Maureen leaned back in her chair and looked him over with a critical eye.

“Are you okay, Frank? You seem… I don’t know, pale beneath that tan.”

“Yes, no, I’m fine, just a little overwhelmed. You know, with all the patients this morning.” Francis waved a hand in the air. His fingers twisted around the forgotten coffee cup, and he took a big swig to avoid saying anything. 

“Right. Absolutely. All the patients.” Maureen’s eyes almost seemed to roll, but Francis was sure he saw it incorrectly.

She smiled, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, and Francis felt unsettled, the pulse in his neck fluttering uncomfortably.

“So how is it going with Mr. Glass? Or, I guess he’s Damian to you now, since you and your wife are on such good terms with him.”

Oh, so it’s going to be like that, is it?

“I certainly don’t know what you mean, Maureen. And I hate to say it, it makes me awful uncomfortable to say, but it isn’t really your business, after all.”

She pulled back further, her pink scrubs twisting, and tilted her head, flashing more teeth.

“Of course, Frank. I’ll get the next patient ready for you.” Maureen reached out and touched his forearm. “Take a moment for a breather, and later I’ll cover for you so you go get lunch. I’m so happy that things between the three of you are going so well, especially after that nasty business at the potluck.” 

She stood, smiled at him again, and left.

Francis’ dark eyes followed her out. Maureen was always in someone’s business, and he especially didn’t want her in his.

He did not like her observantness. He didn’t like how she could tell he was uncomfortable; how he didn’t have lunch from Julie; how Maureen had instructed him to take a break.

He didn’t like any of it one bit.

Chapter Text

It is 2:46pm, and I am slumped over in the exam room on the little round wheeley stool, I am very tired. 

Yet another hiker just left, their brand new gear scuffed from falling into a ravine. Turns out there’s some kind of meetup happening today for families from the city, and too many of them had no experience for the trip. No one got hurt too badly, thank God, but it’s always better to be safe than sorry. 

I’m tired, and cold, and a slight tremor is threatening to break down my arms. I need sustenance. I won’t be of much use to anyone else if I can’t focus, can’t still my hands, can’t maintain a calm demeanor.

Knock knock

My shoulders jump as Maureen opens the door, and I immediately straighten, arms tight, hands on my knees. 

“Frank, we don’t have anyone in the lobby, so if you want to go get lunch…”

“Oh, yes, thank you Maureen. Are you sure there isn’t anyone waiting? I-”

“Nope, no one. Go ahead, Frank. You’re looking even worse than earlier. You have to take care of yourself.”

Is she being passive aggressive? Do her words have a double meaning? I can’t tell. And I'm so tired.

“Alright, thank you. I”ll be right back.”

“No, no. Eat, take your time. I’m worried about you.”

I’m worried about you. Julie says the same thing. I don’t like it any more coming out Maureen’s mouth than Julie’s. A frown threatens to break across my face but I force it back, shove it down. Smiling at her, I say:

“Thank you. I’ll be back soon.”

And before she can protest, I’ve pushed past her. 

The car door shuts, and finally I am surrounded by pure silence, with only my breath to echo in my ears. The sound almost buzzes with the quiet. By the time I blink and open my eyes, I’m driving by the diner, and…

It’s packed. I can’t even get a parking spot. 

What the hell.

The grocery-hardware store parking lot is also full, as is the one at the church. Living in a small town is pretty much perfect and everything I’d hoped it would be, but, uh, it’s not built for anything bigger than, you know... the inhabitants of that small town. Thankfully, there’s a spot open down a side street only a five minute walk to Jolene’s. 

Jingle jangle goes the front door bell, and I’m hit by a wall of sound as I step inside the restaurant. Much like the hospital, the diner is filled up, and the back, which is usually cordoned off with an old velvet rope on two brass stands and only opened up for dinner service, is also full.

I haven’t seen this many people in here since Pastor Tad McCullough’s last wedding service before he retired and his niece came over from Ireland to take over the parish. 

There’s a tap on my shoulder, and I turn. It’s Jolene, behind the counter, looking uncharacteristically ruffled; still cheerful and graceful as ever, but a couple of hairs have broken loose from her grey bun, and the fine lines around her eyes seem a little deeper.

Apparently I’m not the only one feeling harried this afternoon.

“So sorry, Dr. Moore. If you want to stand by the counter, I can get you a sandwich to go. It’ll just take a few minutes. Well, maybe a lil longer. It’s packed today. Do you know what that’s about?”

“Oh, not a problem, something about hikers from the city-”

“Shoot, I’m so sorry to cut you off, Dr. Moore, but I think table eight needs something. I’ll put in a reuben to the kitchen, just like usual, right?” 

And just like that, before I can answer, Jolene is gone, run-on off to help one of the full tables.

Imagine that. Tourists. In Nowhere. Change must be in the air.

My eyes run over the unfamiliar faces filling every booth, running over and over... until they settle on one that is only too-familiar.

Chapter Text

Chrome detailing on the full teal booths reflect back at me a thousand details I ignore but for one that stands out across the sea of hungry humanity: deep blue eyes shining above a full-lipped smirk set in an angular face. He sits in a booth facing me, but he hasn’t seen me from across the room. 

He hasn’t seen me yet .

As Jolene walks away, all I can see is Damian: here, alive, and uncharacteristically rumpled. 

Have I thought about it yet? Have I let myself think about it yet? How Damian could’ve died Saturday night in that freak fire? That smirk of his was almost permanently erased from the world, lost in the aftermath of a horrible death, in pain, and if I hadn't gone to him that night, he would’ve died alone.

Why is death always following me and the people I-

Hush now. He’s smiling, and dimples stand out in his cheeks. Have I ever seen him smile like that before? Has he ever smiled at me like that before? Especially look at the line on the right side of his mouth, how handsomely it deepens. There’s dirt on his cheeks, on the stretched-out collar of his soft grey t-shirt. His hands look scuffed, scratched, and there might be a bruise forming on his temple. 

He looks rough.

If he had died Saturday night, what would have become of me?

No more death, please, Lord. No more.

Chapter Text

“...those fucking teenagers, must’ve snuck past security, getting so close to the construction. Wait, do we even have security? Maybe this is another fucking thing to bring up with Syphus.” Damian took a long drink from the white mug in his hand and closed his eyes to dull the burnt flavor. Darcy was quiet across from him, her laughter all dried up. 

Blue eyes opened and looked at his best friend, one eyebrow quirked upward.

“Darcy Darling, why aren’t you laughing? I’m hilarious.”

But she wasn’t looking at him, her head tilted slightly up and to the right. Damian followed her gaze, and-

-his coffee cup clattered to the table, splattering his already ruined shirt.

“Shit!”

A large hand grabbed napkins off the table and blotted at Damian’s shirt roughly as the poor man looked on in horror.

“Get your fucking hands off of him,” the woman in grey growled at the doctor, making him drop the soiled napkins and step back. 

“‘M sorry, I just…” but he says nothing more, enraptured by the blush blooming across Damian’s face. “Damian.”

The man looked up at him, cheeks pink.

“Mm? W-what’s up, Doc?”

“I-”

Pfft, and then: “Hahaha, Mr. Glass, seriously. ‘What’s up, Doc?’ Ahah!” Jolene stood next to Francis, absolutely losing her mind with laughter, tears forming at the corners of her eyes and spilling over. She finally calmed down a bit, wiped her eyes, and let go of Francis who she’d held onto for support. “Oh my goodness, that’s just too funny. You’re too funny, Mr. Glass.”

“Please, call me Damian,” Mr. Glass volunteered, his voice smaller than usual, uncomfortable.

“Goodness gracious. I really needed that. Woo!”

Everyone continued staring at her awkwardly, but Jolene was a professional, had been doing this for twenty years, and so smoothly transitioned the atmosphere.

“Frank, I’m so sorry but your sandwich will take at least twenty minutes to get through the kitchen. There aren’t any open seats, but! You and Damian know each other, right? Damian, would you and your friend mind terribly if Frank sat with y'all while he waited?” Jolene steamrolled over all three people, ignoring the silence following her suggestion, assuming the answer would be yes, because why wouldn’t it? “I’ll just go grab you a water, Frank, and- do you want a coffee? You look like you could use one. Alright, one water, one coffee, and you get yourself settled. Your food’ll be out in a jiffy!”

Jolene tromped off, black apron tight around her waist, accentuating the curvature and strength of her form, and Francis looked back down at his two new dining companions. 

This morning when he came downstairs for coffee, he was too caught off guard, too tired, too out of sorts, too upset by his dream, and seeing Damian in the kitchen like a wraith from one of his late night office fantasies completely threw him.

But here was the man himself, looking rumpled, unguarded, laughing honestly at something Darcy was saying, a vulnerability to him, an intimacy there that all of a sudden, Francis knew he desperately wanted; and in this knowing, he was at a loss for words.

The three of them stayed like that for a while, a cone of silence in the raucous diner. Finally, Darcy broke the silence and said something under her breath that Francis thought sounded like fucking assimilation directives, but then she stood, putting herself between him and Damian, forcing Francis back with her incredibly dense personal space bubble despite being a full foot shorter than him, and sat down next to Damian. 

Now, the booth across the table from them was open.

For Francis.

To sit in.

Hypothetically, at least. Her eyes threatened him, but she did make room for him.

And so he…

Well… he sat down.

Chapter Text

His eyes slowly climbed over Damian, absorbing every detail, while Damian was deeply fascinated by his cup of coffee, and Darcy shot daggers at Francis. Overall, it was actually not the most uncomfortable interaction any of them had had with the other.

Darcy was the first to speak.

“You didn’t give him a key, asshole.”

Francis coughed into the cup of water at his mouth, swallowing hard, and when he looked up at Darcy, he immediately noticed Damian sitting next to her, eyes locked on his throat in a different kind of fascination. Damian noticed Francis noticing him, and his blush (which had never left) deepened. He looked back down at his coffee cup, once again lost in it’s brown depths.

“I’m sorry?”

“You had better be!”

Damian, quietly: “Darcy.”

“No, Damian! I should’ve known Mr. Punch-Happy over there and his Trophy Wife wouldn’t be able to take care of you.”

“I- I’m sorry, I really do not understand.”

“Darcy, come on.” Damian laid a hand over hers, eyes pleading. 

Francis was deeply confused. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

“I…” Damian started. “I may or may not have had a tiny little accident at the construction site today.”

Francis was shocked. “Again?!”

“Well, hey, at least this time it wasn’t on purpose!”

Darcy and Francis both stared at him with big eyes.

“...and anyway, it’s not nearly as bad as last time. I was just a little roughed up is all.”

Darcy was shrill when she said, “You fell down a hill!”

“It was a very short hill, and there were hardly any trees or boulders on it.”

“If those fucking kids hadn’t been wandering around inside the security fence, this wouldn’t have happened. We should sue their parents.”

“No, we’re not doing that.”

“And you wouldn’t let me take you to the hospital!” Darcy pointed a finger at Francis. “Probably because you’re there.”

“That’s not why,” Damian said, unconvincingly.

Francis: “Do you need to go? I’ll see you immediately, it’s been super packed today but your safety is paramount.”

“NO.”

Darcy and Francis stared at him again.

“Ha, ha, no, it’s alright. I’m fine.”

“And this entire conversation is one I exactly had with him, you prick. Don’t you think I know how to take care of my friends?”

Confused, not meaning it sarcastically at all, Francis said: “I thought you said you two weren’t friends?” He was right, of course. The first time he met either of the pair, Darcy specifically said, that asshole’s not my friend.

Darcy stood up, homicide in her eyes. Damian pulled her back down.

“If you’d just given him a fucking key, I could’ve taken him home to rest after he ate, but you couldn’t even do that. I need to go back to work, and he needs to pop some Advil and be horizontal for several hours.”

“Darcy, I’m fine.”

“No! You aren’t! First the accident a few months ago, then when the disgruntled husband over here,” every time she mentioned his marriage, Francis’ stomach churned. “Fucking punched you, and that Monday you came into work with a limp, a bruised face, and an uncharacteristically unstylish scarf on… and then, the fire… which he just so happened to be there to rescue you from…

“...wait.”

Darcy looked between the two men, pieces finally clicking into place.

“Oh HELL no! Damian!!”

“Darcy Darling, please, you’re causing a scene.”

“I am NOT.”

And so Damian used the only tool at his disposal.

“Assimilation directives.”

And immediately Darcy shut up.

Chapter Text

Damian’s voice was languid, but he looked uncomfortable as he said: “I think we can all agree that this is a private conversation, one not to be had but one especially not to be had in public.”

“Damian, you can’t be serious. With him?”

“Darcy.”

“Fine. You-“ she pointed at a mute, blushing, horrified Francis. 

Then a phone went off. It happened to be hers. Darcy pulled it from her matching black leather bag, glancing at the screen.

“Shit fuck. They need me back at the site.”

“Alright well we best get going-“

“No, asshat. You’re not going back. You need to rest before you go throwing yourself into any more horrible situations.” Darcy glared at Francis as she said this.

“Well then what am I supposed to-“

“Shut up, Damian. You-“ she pointed again at Francis. “You are going to take care of him, and you aren’t going to let anything else happen to him. Or. Fucking. Else.”

Francis nodded once, mouth tight, eyes wide.

“Good. Damian?”

“Hmm?” Amusement mixed with embarrassment over his features. 

“Just… whatever you’re doing. Stop . Stop before you get any more hurt.” Her eyes were soft despite the rage in them, and her hand floated a gentle touch over his shoulder. 

Darcy stood, looking down at Francis like a prosecutor staring down a rapist, disgust and anger there, but also a cold professionalism; a look that said, there’s nothing you can do to hurt me, but I’d like to see you try.

And she left, saying nothing more.

Chapter Text

Both men sipped their coffees in silence, and eventually Francis’ sandwich came out. He stared at it, and Damian stared at him until Francis looked up, catching his eye. Both men then looked away, and sipped their coffees again, a slight tremble running up Francis’ hands.

“This mornin’-“

“It’s fine, Darcy was able to give me a ride, so it all worked out.”

“Oh. Good.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry for running out like that.”

“Ha, it’s really fine, Frankie.”

“I just wasn’t expectin’…” Francis’ voice trailed off.

“Expecting what?” Damian asked, his eyes crinkled in confusion.

“You... looking like that. Standing there.” Francis refused to meet Damian’s eyes.

“ So sorry that my appearance displeased you so deeply.”

“No, Damian, that’s not…”

“I mean, I was only dressed like that cuz I needed to go on a run, and Darcy didn’t pack me any workout clothes, so Julie… uh, Julie had to give me some. She said you didn’t like them anyway. I didn't think it would be such a big deal. I’m kind of flying blind at the moment, you know, with all my stuff burned up in a fire…” Damian rambled on, only stopping when one large calloused hand laid over his smaller, smoother one.

“It’s alright. Jules’ been trying to get rid of that shirt for years, and those shorts never fit me right. They, uh, they sure fit you right, though.” Suddenly Francis’ hand felt too big, too warm, and Damian pulled away.

“Frankie.”

“Yes?”

“Are you going to eat your sandwich? Your hands are shaking.”

“Oh.” But he just stared at Damian, and Damian’s blush returned. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. I always am.”

“I don’t know if that’s true.”

“Well, it’s none of your concern anyway.”

“I think it might be. You are, after all, uh, my guest, and it seems you have a habit of putting yourself in dangerous situations.” 

Francis’ dark eyes bored into Damian.

“Aha, you caught that, huh? To my credit, this time was actually an accident.”

Francis' heart pounded hard in his chest.

“What happened?” He meant, what happened before? Why did you hurt yourself? Just to see me? Why? You didn’t even know me. You still probably don’t. The horrible depths of the things I’ve done. But, of course, Damian didn’t answer any of those questions.

“We’re reaching a critical phase in the project, and there were tons of hikers or something wandering around the woods, and we have barriers up and some security, but a couple of teens snuck in and got too close to some dangerous equipment, and me being the ever-loving and fastidious man that I am,” his words dripped with sarcasm, “I called out to them, ho! Teens! Shoo! And tried to shoo them away, and unfortunately… fell down a hill. But again! It was a very, very short hill. Practically just a bump.”

“...I’d really rather look you over.”

Damian gave him a queer look.

“We both know what happened the last time you felt bad and wanted to ‘look me over’.”

“But it was my fault you were hurt the last time.”

“Oh, come on. We both knew what we were doing. You couldn’t have actually been concerned about me.”

Francis said nothing, couldn’t meet Damian’s eyes anymore. Damian’s sharp intake of breath rang in his ears, before Damian said:

“You sweet man. You really were concerned.”

Silence met him and hung in the air, both men hoping for a particular response but not wanting to hope too much. Afraid to hope too much.

...

Francis' phone rang, and the men jumped.

“Maureen? What-“ Damian heard the loud screeches of that too-friendly woman on the other end. “I’ll be there immediately.” He hung up the phone and made a move to stand. “Oh.” Looking back at Damian.

“Hmm?” Damian questioned over his cup of cold coffee.

“I have to go to the hospital.”

“Mhmm? What’s that to do with me?”

“You have to come with.”

“If you’re that horny, might I suggest using your own hand.”

“No, Damian. Shit.”

“My last name is Glass, but yes? What is it?” Damian acted as if everything was fine, smiling pleasantly, entertained by his joke.

“I have to take care of you.”

“Come onnnnn, if you’re worried about Darcy, she’s mostly harmless. I’ll lie and say you did a great job taking care of me. In a totally platonic way, of course.”

“That’s not… Just. Here,” Francis frowned, lifting under Damian’s arm, pulling him to his feet.

“Alright, alright, no need to get handsy. I’m coming, geez.” Francis released him, threw down a twenty dollar bill, and walked out, missing how Damian grabbed the plate and sandwich and walked out the door with it.

They were down the road a few minutes before Francis realized what Damian had stolen.

Chapter Text

Late afternoon sun would have hit the car with deep orange rays if not for the dense canopy overhead as the two men drove to the hospital together. The plate sitting in Damian’s lap overflowed with untouched sandwich and cold French fries; nimble, pale fingers flitted down to pick up the cold soggy sticks and bring them to a perfect mouth that chewed absentmindedly, blue eyes on the trees flying by outside the passenger-side window as the two men sped down the road. 

Aside from periodic munching, the car was quiet. 

Damian turned his head towards Francis, his typically melodic voice showing unusual restraint, the highs and lows of it muted.

"How long till we get there?" 

"What are you, a little kid?" Francis teased back, laughing lightly, his shoulders tight, obviously concerned about something but in strangely good spirits; however, Damian couldn't tell if it was about him or about whatever awaited them at the hospital; one large, rough hand gripped the steering wheel tight, and the other rested on the gear stick.

"Well, fuck me then." Damian rolled his eyes in annoyance and looked back out the window, pouting. 

You know, like a child.

"I…"

"Fucking hell, it's fine. Fuck."

"Shit. I'm... sorry?"

"Don't you ever get tired of it?" Damian shot back.

"Of what?"

"Of apologizing."

Francis was silent a moment, before asking:

"You said ‘at least this time it wasn’t on purpose.’ Which means…”

Damian’s voice was monotone when he said: “We don’t have to do this. We don’t have to-”

“Why did you hurt yourself?"

Silence smothered the car. 

Francis continued: "I don’t know why you did that. You didn't even know me. If..."

Damian still says nothing.

"...if it was even about me at all.”

“Of course it was,” Damian spit out.

“Well, then, if it was about me, there are easier ways to see someone. We could’ve met at the church, or through a mutual acquaintance... or at the grocery store… Wait.”

“Hey! That time was, uh, that time was an accident.”

“That time? What? What is going on, Damian? Why did you go through all that trouble just to meet me?”

“Well… I’ve… we’ve… sort of met before. Kind of.”

Francis’ voice is soft: “I think I would’ve remembered you.”

“Well, you didn't exactly see me… before. The first time we officially met. But I… I saw you.”

“I don't… Damian, I don't understand. You’re gonna hafta explain.”

Damian took a deep breath before continuing.

“Well! I was at the diner, the one we were just at, and I was drinking coffee and it was very bad. And I had just come to town and it was the worst, as you know, you live here, it’s absolutely terrible, and then you just sort of... walked in.”

“And? I don't-”

“Well, you were outside playing with a child. And I didn’t like that. Um. And then you came in and you smiled at the-” Damian cleared his throat. “Jolene, as I know her name is now, and you were just. So. Happy. And I…”

“You were jealous,” and Francis smiled, but his angsty passenger missed it because he was too busy refusing to look at him.

Damian chuckled mirthlessly. “It doesn't even matter anymore though, right? Because this. Isn't a thing. We’re not... nothing is happening. And nothing is going to happen because you have your perfect wife and your perfect life and your little house and your little hospital and your little town and I’m not a person who does ‘little’ things.”

“Uh huh. Yes, I know. Because you got run over on purpose just to make, what… a meet cute? Between us?” Amusement twinkled in black eyes.

“Well, I wouldn't put it like that but if you have to put it a… way… that’s…. Adjacent to the, uh, facts of the case.” 

He was being uncharacteristically, in one word, awkward. And Francis found it utterly endearing.

“Oh! Ooookay, so now you’re Detective Damian Glass. From the precinct of what, being an asshole and manipulatin’ situations just to get what you want?”

“I mean. It’s the only way I've ever gotten what I wanted.”

“Have you tried bein’ a genuine person maybe?” From anyone else, it would’ve sounded unkind, but from Francis, it was full of heart.

“Pfft. Psht. Who would do that? That leaves things up to chance. I mean are you happy, being a genuine person?”

“Well I… I don't really know that I would categorize myself as someone who’s genuine.” Shame bubbled under the surface of Francis’ voice.

“Oh come onnnnn, this whole ‘sad sap’ thing again. Really?”

“It’s… I don't… really know what you mean by that, but it’s, uh, it’s just how… I can’t…”

“I looked in your little box, I know that-”

Francis cut him off.

“You don't know anything.”

“Well maybe if you’d just fucking talk to me.”

“I dont… I- I don't … it’s not… I’ve never… talked about it with anyone before, and uh... If we’re nothin’ to each other then there’s no reason to start now.”

“If we’re nothing to each other,” Damian dully mocked.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it? That’s what you told me Saturday night.”

Damian heaved a weary sigh.

“What do you want, Francis?  What do you-”

“Don't call me that.”

“Okay. Frankie. What do you want?   What do you want from me?”

“What the hell do you want from me? Why did you go through all this trouble, just to run away in the end?” Francis was exasperated.

“It was just a fantasy. It didn’t mean anything.”

“You don't mean that. Look me in the eye and say that again. Say that to me right now.”

“I can’t... I can't. You know I can't,” Damian whispered.

“If you can't say it to me, and I can't say it to you, then… Look, I want you in my life. And I don't know the way that I want that yet, but I don't like whatever this is that we’re doin’. We’re not talkin’, and we’re not lookin’ at each other, and we’re sayin’ things but we’re not speakin’ straight. I can’t talk like you do, I can't… with the insinuations; it’s just not in me. It’s just not who I am. And if you … if I mean anythin’ to you like what you mean to me, I need you to tell it to me straight and be honest with me and stop playin’ all these fuckin’ games, Damian. You’re always playin’ your goddamn games. But,” Francis swallowed hard, his hand clenched around the gear stick, knuckles white. “I don't wanna play a game with you.”

Damian was quiet, and finally whispered: “What is it that you want, Frankie? Just tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”

It was silent for a moment, until finally the answer came:

“I want your everythin’.”

A soft, thin hand reached out and rested over Francis’. A soft mouth with full lips opened to speak, when the two men pulled into the hospital, parking lot full, an emergency vehicle outside the front door.

You mean everything to me.

Chapter Text

Jolene’s reuben plate slides from my hand and taps down onto the crusty, disgust-y snack room table, and I use all of my will power to stop my upper lip from curling in revulsion at the scene. But… actually, I’m alone in here while Frankie and Nursey-Poo deal with that clusterfuck of a lobby, so... 

My lips crinkle and curl to their satisfaction, free from observation and judgment and the potential to ruin any plans I may or may not still have.

Ha , plans I may or may not still have. As if I really had a plan at this point besides ‘survive’. He, my shadow, my unfriendly ghost, has certainly made it clear that that’s my only option. But Frankie… 

Oh, Frankie. 

~

Frankie, Frankie, Frankie. Unexpected, unpredictable Frankie. What am I going to do with you? Our last moments in the car were everything, and yet nothing, like I’d hoped for. He wants my everything? How much could I give him without giving up myself completely? He wants my honesty? How honest can I be with him before that honesty would tear us apart? He is a good man, a man of integrity, guided by strong moral principles. 

That kind of man is fundamentally at odds with who and what I am.

It hurts, knowing this. Makes me sick. Has made me sick enough to throw up, in the past. If he got what he wants, he would reject me, and then we would each have nothing all over again.

He wants my honesty, but that’s something I can never give him. But, if he wants me badly enough, maybe this is enough; maybe who I am and who he sees before him is enough. If I’m careful enough, maybe he won’t realize that I’m not a complete person. If he can love who I am today, maybe he never needs to know who I was; never needs to know what I’ve done to survive.

It’s too ugly, and it’s too painful, and it’s too much. I’m too much, and I know this, and I accept this. 

A chuckle escapes me at the futility of it all, and several fries escape the rounded edge of the plate, falling to the dirty tabletop. I sneer again.

Disgusting.

Chapter Text

“Knock knock!”

I look up, and yes, unfortunately it’s Nursey-Poo herself, Ms. Maureen, standing in the doorway. And, yep, she sure did say knock knock instead of actually knocking. And that all-knowing, pedantic smile on her face...

I don’t like it. 

“Ah! Maureen! What can I help you with?” I’m leaned back in the cheap plastic chair, feet up on the gross table, phone in my hands, the very picture of an unbothered asshole. 

Why pretend to be something I’m not? 

I mean, you know, other than… never mind.

She wipes a bead of sweat from her forehead.

“Oh, nothin’! Just checkin’ up on the doctor’s patient. Or… maybe friend is more accurate. Or maybe there’s another word for it? Hmm.”

She moves to the coffee station, making herself a cup of something hot and loathsome. 

“If you mean me,” of course she means me, “I’m perfectly fine, very content sitting here. Quite a comfortable room to wait in. Frank-” 

She whips around so fast that coffee splashes from the cup in her hand, and her expression screams ‘ Gotcha!’

“-Doc told me it would be a while, but if you’re here, he must not be that overloaded. Unless, he’s used to carrying your weight.”

My smile is sickeningly sweet enough to melt glass.

Maureen says, “Haha, oh, you,” and now I really don’t like how she’s smiling at me. 

Her eyes move along my mostly-horizontal figure, and I really really don’t like that. Her mouth opens to speak, and I wish she wouldn’t.

“Lookin’ a lil’ rougher than usual, huh? Gettin’ into a lil’ bit of trouble?” Maureen takes a sip of her poison, gaze catching on my torn and dirty clothes.

“Ah, you know me, always getting into something or other.” I gesture vaguely in the air, demonstrating that ‘something or other’, really playing up the stereotype. “And you- ” I look at her now, really look at her, and don’t hold back my grimace. “Pink just isn’t your color. And those- *tsk* -are those melon Crocs? Oh, Maureen. You poor thing. And that hair . Kate Gosselin wore it better.” I go back to my phone, dismissing her with a wave. “If you need clothing recommendations, might I suggest not basing your aesthetic on a failed reality tv star.” 

She’s quiet, so quiet that I forget she’s there. I’m in the middle of texting Darcy a chastity cage meme, when-

“Does Mrs. Moore know you’re gay ?”

I choke on my own spit, and that choke evolves into a laugh. My feet slam down, and I’m still laughing. Standing, I stalk over to her, oozing into her space. She presses back against the coffee counter, but doesn’t make any real moves to get away from me. Maureen’s murky brown eyes widen, the ring of unblended liner around them turn them into bullseyes, and from this close I can see her dilated pupils, her short breath, and the slight flush rising in her cheeks. 

Ah, here it is. 

Here’s what I can use.

One hand pats on the counter next to her hip, and I lean in closer, smiling down at her with half-lidded eyes, making sure to play up my long lashes. Women go crazy for that shit.

I wonder if that would work on Frankie?

Focus , Damian. Focus.

A gentle smirk pushes up the right side of my mouth, and it opens slightly like I’m going to say something, then closes, my eyes averting. My lips part again, my eyes rolling over to meet hers full on, and not only do I see her gulp, I hear it, too. I lick my lips, careful to not overdo it, and push a strand of over-bleached, straightened hair away from her ear, leaning in to whisper:

“Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

My ass is back in the chair, feet on the table, before Maureen breaks out of her shock enough to scuttle out of the room.

How heteronormative of you, bitch . I contain multitudes.

Chapter Text

I am BORED. I am bored, and I have been waiting, and I would wait a lifetime for Frankie, buuuuuuuuut.

Come on. I’m bored!

I keep peaking my head out of the torture room, and I’ve caught him coming and going a couple of times from what seems to be the only patient room they use, but that’s it! What the fuck, honestly. This hospital is huge! More rooms should be used! 

Hmm, I suppose there should also be more doctors. And better nurses. Or maybe Maureen is, in fact, a fantastic nurse and I’m just salty because she knows something or thinks she knows something and I don’t know what that something is. At the church potluck, I really thought I had cracked her nut. Part of my mission was to smooth over the roughness from the first time we met, and I thought I’d succeeded! Her eyes clung to me like teflon, following my form under that clingy shirt, and I charmed her mom. I even got Maureen laughing. So what’s changed? 

I can’t stand being in this room a second longer. I have things to do, and the more I sit and do nothing, the more I feel them eating away at me. 

The room next door is filled with medical supplies. Okay. Less boring, but still boring. Then there’s the only exam room, and the door is closed. I know Frankie is behind it, doing some good doctoring. The times I’ve been in there with him were thrilling.

I can’t believe he’s obsessed with me, too. Or maybe he just ponders what he doesn’t know, and once he gets to know me more he’ll push me aside.

Has he ever touched any of his other patients the way he’s touched me? Has he ever been inside any of them?  

Tell me I’m special, Frankie. Worship my body with your tongue. Please.

~

Closed doors line the hallway, and none of them are locked, and all of them are empty. Great. Why is this place so fucking creepy? There’s more than one floor, but only the bottom one is used, and it looks like only three rooms are utilized. What’s on the next floor?

I go down the hallway, making sure no one sees me make my way to the end of the wing, just in case. The door leads to a stairwell, which I am not going up. No thank you. I’m not looking to be the first victim in some genre film.

Hey, there’s a door that probably goes to the outside, but it says FIRE EXIT ONLY; ALARM WILL SOUND . 

Will a fire alarm sound? What’s the worst that could happen? Anything would be better than my current boredom.

I push through and now I’m… in the woods?

Like, there’s just woods out here. There’s a little bit of dirt that’s been pounded flat, a little road that goes around to the front of the building, some tire marks, and some soft footprints. Actually, the tread-

Wind blows through the trees, loud and rushing, sounding like some many-footed creature charging towards me, spooking me like I’m some horse, and the safety door slips from my grasp, slamming shut behind me.

“Shit!”

The slam echoes through the trees, and I look around, but no one bears witness to my embarrassment. Thank fuck. If Maureen had seen it, I’d never hear the end of it. 

Huh… I can feel my forehead wrinkling in thought, and try to rub out the crease. Upon reflection, the sound was almost familiar. And these footprints...

Yeah! I’d know the sole of those shoes anywhere! I rubbed them out of my beautiful face for a week after Darcy especially disapproved of a gag gift I so thoughtfully picked out. Which I found hilarious. “What kind of motherfucker,” she’d screamed at me, “would think that CROCS of all things-”

Hahaha, only Maureen would wear such tacky shit.

Huh. That’s weird...

Oh.

...

Oh.

OH FUCK.

Chapter Text

The too-long-yet-too-short drive back to the hollow Moore homestead was quiet. Francis’ big hands loosely held the steering wheel, warmth at the possibility building between them heating his chest, while Damian’s shockingly blue eyes flickered over the fields and forests they whizzed by, mouth shut in a hard line, thoughts elsewhere. 

It was late by the time they got back, dusk settling in as Francis drove up the long driveway up the lawn-covered hill, his heart pounding hard. 

“‘M sorry it took so long to get back here.”

Damian said nothing, eyes staring unblinkingly out the passenger side window.

“Um, thank you for your patience, things at the hospital were unexpectedly hectic.”

Still, Damian said nothing. Francis felt awkward, uncertainty creeping in, chilling his fingers. They sat like that in the driveway for a long moment, engine still running, white garage door still closed. Francis let go of his sweaty hold on the steering wheel and reached a tentative hand over to Damian, gently touching him just above his knee, a move that implied intimacy but also showed restraint, respect.

Damian jumped ten feet, and Francis yanked back his hand like it was scalding.

“Shit!”

“Uh, sorry, Damian. We’re home.”

Home. What a word; a word that meant so much and yet so little, depending on who you called your family.

“Home?” Relief appeared briefly across his smooth features, but as he looked around, clarity stormed across his eyes, and an expression that was almost hopeful, turned hard.

“Oh. Your house.”

Francis reached up and clicked the garage door opener, and Damian opened the passenger side door.

“Damian.” 

“Huh?” Damian looked up at him, his forehead wrinkled.

“We’re not inside the garage yet.”

“Oh.” Damian shut the door.

“Are… are you okay?” Francis asked as he drove them into the garage, Julie’s car noticeably absent from its spot.

“I’m perfectly fine. Never been better,” Damian replied, but his voice was flat, lacking its usual melody and inflection.

“Is… did I do somethin’?” Francis asked, stomach churning.

Damian’s eyes flicked over to him, his features still tense, but he offered a small smile.

“No, Frankie. Of course not. Let’s go inside.”

He was gone before Francis could say anything further.

Chapter Text

In the sleepy small town of Nowhere, even closing your garage door during the day was a little unusual, so of course the door from the garage into the house was unlocked, and of course by the time Francis locked his car, closed the garage door, and went inside, Damian was nowhere to be found.

Is he gone?

Francis’ pulse spiked at the possibility. He quickly checked the downstairs: kitchen, bathroom, hallway, empty ‘family room’ after empty ‘family room’, the plastic covering the expensive furniture exactly in the same, unwrinkled position Julie left it in. 

He stopped in front of the closed, heavy door of his office, sweat beading at his temple.

“Damian?” he called softly as the door swung open, but no one answered him. It was then that the blood rushing in his ears subsided, and he realized that most of the whooshing was external, that the water heater was bubbling, that water was draining somewhere overhead.

Somewhere about in the location of the guest bathroom upstairs.

Oh. Right.

Francis’ foot was lifted to step onto the third stair rung, climbing on instinct, not thinking about what it was doing or where it was going, knowing only that it must ascend.

BRRRING .

His foot jerked down, and he almost felt like he was falling, catching himself from the vertigo. Francis turned to the door behind him, an ornate wooden thing with wrought glasswork that let light in but didn’t let those within or without get a clear view of those on the other side. 

Francis opened the door, finding a delivery person in matching khaki shorts and polo and hat, holding a clipboard emblazoned with the same logo as the clothes they wore: FraggleNow, in neon blue and cyan, the colors so bright as to be blurry, like a glowing shop sign at midnight, accidentally left on long after the shop itself had closed. Even their black nametag, MITAL imprinted in neon green, had the logo.

A pile of boxes as tall as they were stood next to them.

“Sign here, please,” the delivery person asked abruptly, sweat dripping down their reddened brow under the khaki hat, thick brown-black hair pulled tight into a low bun, a few curly flyaways exposing the long day they’d surely had.

“Oh, right,” Francis said, barely glancing at the proffered clipboard before signing and returning it.

“Hold on,” Mital said, and walked along the concrete walkway to the driveway, disappearing around the corner. Francis held on, wondering if he should offer to help, when they reappeared, wheeling another series of boxes over on a trolly.

“Just one more, sir,” they said, and disappeared again. 

Francis looked at the walls of boxes building around his front door, his black eyes big.

How much bullshit did Julie order this time? I’ll go bankrupt if she keeps spending money like this.

The delivery person reappeared, the final load slightly less tall than the previous one. They slid the trolly out from under it, and handed Francis the yellow copy of the loading slip he’d signed.

“Alright, that’s it. Have a great evening.”

“Wait,” Francis said, pulling out his wallet and offering a wrinkled ten dollar bill. “Thank you,” he said, and offered it out.

The delivery person paused, contemplating, then looked up at him with an unreadable expression.

“That’s alright, sir. It’s against company policy to accept tips, and I was heavily compensated for my work today. Give Mr. Glass my regards,” they said, and slipped away from the awkward exchange.

“Mr. Glass?” Francis asked the recently vacated spot where the delivery person just stood, and checked the nearest box. 

ATTN: DAMIAN GLASS said the first one. And the second. And the third.

Is he moving in or something?

Francis’ heart thudded in his chest.

Do I want that?

Chapter Text

Shit, I should’ve asked them to put the boxes inside.

As things were, there were too many boxes outside that had to be brought inside. Francis wheeled out his own trolly from the garage, banged up, red paint chipping, revealing the black steel metal beneath. 

Julie had surprised him one Christmas with a new one, a shiny yellow one with black stripes, handle brakes, solid wheels that didn't need to be pumped up, and a back attachment to help carry things up and down stairs. It broke the following February, and he was back to using his old one, the one he’d had since college, the one that had never failed him.

New isn’t always better.

Is that what I’m doing with Damian? Moving onto him from Julie? Chasing what’s new instead of what’s right in front of me?

Doubt roiled inside, but he knew that wasn’t true. Francis knew that what he and Julie had was broken, bleeding out, and neither of them seemed very interested in fixing whatever it was, and besides, he’d never felt about Julie the way he feels about Damian. The two feelings were incomparable, as were the two people. Julie was his punishment, his servitude, his devotion to always putting himself last and suffering for things he could neve truly be forgiven for. Julie was his lifelong attempt at being a better man, a better person.

But Damian… Damian was light. Damian was life. Damian singed the insides of his veins and challenged everything he thought he knew about himself. Damian wanted him as he was, or at least said he did, and Julie had only ever been interested in what Francis could give her. 

Which was enough for Francis.

Until it wasn’t.

And he couldn’t go back now.

So he got out his beat-up trolly, wheeled the boxes in, and carefully pulled them up the stairs until they were all settled into Damian’s room. The spacious, light room looked smaller with all the boxes piled up.

How will it all fit?

There’s no way he has enough room or storage for all this.

Let me see.

Francis opened the first box, one from a tailor with a fancy sticker slapped on the side. T-shirts just like the ones Damian wore, just like the one he'd stolen a lifetime ago, the one that was so soft under Francis’ fingers, under other parts of him, too.

These will need to be washed.

There were also pants and a couple sweaters in the box. Francis set them down on the fluffy, white bedspread, broke down the box and leaned it against the wall, and picked up the next box, a small one from some optometrist on the top of the pile.

“What are you doing?” a strangled voice behind him asked.

Chapter Text

There aren’t any bottles of tearless shampoo, no rubber duckies sit on the edges of the tub, and the towels hanging on the rack are soft, fluffy, and pristine. This is definitely the guest bathroom, and the Moores don’t seem to entertain very often. I pump the white, chalky Dove body wash from the supersize, completely full dispenser in the shower into my hand. This is going to leave a tacky residue on my skin, but there’s nothing I can do about it until my things arrive.

The fastest way to get my shit is using my corporate shipping account. The only way to ensure that corporate doesn’t know what’s in the packages is to use every connection I have, every good-spirited shopkeep and online vendor that I have cultivated relationships with, and a hefty monetary incentive for their silence and discreet packaging. 

When I first moved out to this backwater state, I brought many things with me, but I also used this as an opportunity to freshen my reserves and have doubles at my burned-up apartment here, and my address in San Francisco. Unfortunately, with my little firestarter, so much of that went up in smoke. But, I did develop a professional friendship (a profess-ship, if you will) with the head of FraggleNow’s distribution center in Macon. They’ll be personally overseeing the delivery of all of my little delicacies, and so I am not worried in the slightest about getting my shit.

Mital always takes care of things personally and perfectly. I’ll have to send them a thank you note after the delivery is complete. 

…

This body wash really does feel awful against my skin, but one must endure hardship.

I hold back a sigh, and gingerly slide the cream-colored wash cloth across my shoulder in a circular motion. 

Ouch. So much ouch. That little tumble down that fucking hill because of those goddamn kids really sucked. There’s a bruise blooming on my shoulder, on my side. Dirt rains down, muddying the bottom of the tub, and I’ve discovered scratches on my left cheek.

If I get a scar on my face from this, I’m going to hunt those teens down and sue their parents until they’re penniless and their kids have to get jobs at the combo grocery/hardware store, at which point I will sneak in and knock things off of the shelves and make their shifts miserable.

Haha, that would be hilarious.

Next comes the shampoo, and yes, it’s as bad as that: Dove two-in-one shampoo/conditioner. I want to sob, but I can get through this. 

Whatever this is. I mean, am I wrong? Is Maureen not involved?

Let’s review the facts of the case:

1. Before I was caught with Julie at the potluck, Maureen and her mom seemed enamored with me. She now seems to be… un-enamored with me, to put it mildly.
2. When Frankie and I were having our little role-play-rendevous a while back at the hospital, we were interrupted by the sound of a slamming door. I saw no one else in the parking lot before or after, and there was no sign of anyone in the hospital before we (honestly, Frankie) ran off.
3. Today, Maureen was… maybe hostile isn’t the right word, but she certainly seemed to know too much and have ulterior motives. 
4. She brought up Julie, which implies she knows I’ve been fucking her. So, for some reason, the general townspeople’s belief (specifically, that Frankie overreacted and that me and Julie are only platonic, and definitely haven’t fucked) doesn’t seem to be Maureen’s belief. Now, why wouldn’t she believe it? Because she knows something else, and that something else seems to be…
5. That Frankie and I have been unneighborly with each other, specifically in the carnal sense. Now, why would she believe THAT? We’ve been (meaning: I’ve been) very, very careful, swaying public opinion, getting in good with everyone I interact with, building up my social armor. She’d only believe that if she…
6. ...had a reason to. Because she’d seen or heard something that she wasn’t supposed to.
7. Today, she was wearing Crocs, and they were very ugly. Today, I went down the hallway and out the emergency exit. Out back, there is a little parking lot, just dirt, surrounded by trees. It is very windy out there. The door slammed shut. There were tire marks, and next to those tire marks were…
8. ...footprints. Footprints that look suspiciously exactly like the tread of Crocs, which I know, because Darcy beat me with a pair that I gifted her with genuineness and full of heart. 

Ahaha.

*Cough*

Anyway. The only conclusion I can come to with these facts is that Maureen was there that day, sneakily parking in the back, and heard me and Frankie together. Which is… bad. That’s bad.

First, he , my shadow, comes back into the picture, moving up my timeline, and now Maureen is doing… whatever the fuck Maureen is doing. I underestimated her, I’ll give her that. Oh, and , I’m staying at Frankie’s house! With Julie! Who I am pretending to be in love with, and am trying to use to destroy their marriage!

Hmm. Things are… a little more complicated than I feel comfortable with. If I’m not careful, I could lose control of the situation. I need to be cautious, tread lightly, and not make any more waves. 

Hold my secrets close, hold Frankie closer. 

The water handle squeaks as I turn off the shower. This nightmare personal bathing session is finally over, and hopefully this is the last time I have to use that garbage soap. My hair is flat to my head, and matted. I'll have to wash my hair vigorously with the products Germaine is sending me to get rid of all the silicones I just dumped on my head. If they see me like this, treating their art (aka my hair, Germaine is incredibly dramatic) (yes, even more so than me) (how dare you think I’m dramatic) like trash, they’ll fire me as a client, and they’re the only one who can blend my roots in so seamlessly.

I tighten a fluffy towel around my waist, the overly puffed fibers smooshing the water against me instead of absorbing like a towel is supposed to.

When will this hell end?

Cold air slides in as I open the bathroom door, dimpling my skin. I should’ve brought Darcy’s robe in with me. The hallway is dark, and light from my open bedroom door spills out. I’ll just throw on Darcy’s robe before I go ask Frankie for something to wear; the reserves from her generous go-bag have been exhausted. 

The scene I walk into chokes me with panic: Frankie, in my room, opening what I’m assuming are my packages.

He can’t know. Not yet. 

Not ever.

I finally manage to push air out of my lungs through my constricted throat: “What are you doing?”

Chapter Text

Francis turned, a small smile on his face from the joy of being helpful, and found a naked Damian standing in the doorway. His black eyes slid down unbidden, heat flushing his cheeks.

Not fully naked. Just mostly. 

Shut up. Eyes up. Don’t be a creep.

“I’m helpin’?” Francis gestured to the neatly stacked mound of clothes, and the piles of boxes. “D’ya think ya ordered enough stuff?” he teased goodnaturedly.

Damian cleared his throat, and said: “Ha, ha, Dr. Moore. Are you poking fun at my expense?” He feigned hurt. “Gosh, and here I thought all you Southern gentlemen were supposed to be more… gentlemanly.” He waggled his eyebrows at Francis, and Francis turned a deeper shade of red.

“I…” but Francis could no longer form words as Damian walked over to him with a particular look in his eye. He plucked the small box from the doctor’s hand and nodded at the piles in his borrowed room. “Yes, I do believe I ordered enough. Why, can you think of anything else I might need ?” His gaze slid over Francis’ body, and Francis chuckled nervously.

“Ah, ha, uh, no, probably not.”

The atmosphere was completely different than just a little while ago in the car, and Francis had emotional whiplash.

Damian turned from him, setting the box down on the side table next to the closet, and pulled on a lavender robe. Francis’ eyes caught on the way the slick material clung to every angle and curve of Damian’s form, but he also saw the bruises on Damian’s side, and that overrode his baser desires.

“Are you okay? You’re bruised.”

“Oh, of course I’m fine. I always am,” Damian waved him away. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to go downstairs and get something that isn’t cold and fried to eat.”

“Wait.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re goin’ downstairs like that?”

“Like what?”

“Um, just wearin’… only that?”

“Well, all of the clothes Darcy gave me are filthy and torn, and my new clothes need to be washed before I can wear them, so this is what I’ve got. Why, are you complaining?”

Damian gave Francis a toothy smirk, and the taller man coughed nervously.

“Ah, I was just thinkin’ that uh, you’re free to wear somethin’ of mine, I mean, Julie already gave you somethin’ to work out in, and it’s really no imposition.”

“I’m very comfortable in this, but if you’d rather I wore something else-”

“It’s just that,” Francis swallowed hard. “I mean, if you're cold. Um, you might be warmer in somethin’ else is all.

Francis had definitely noticed the peaks of Damian’s hardened nipples; had noticed the goosebumps on his arms, and how much paler he was than usual. 

“I suppose I am a little chilly ,” Damian conceded, and followed Francis out, into, and down the dark hallway to the double doors at the end. They entered the large master bedroom, with the four-poster bed, the antique carved furniture, a dressing table and mirror assumedly for Julie, a hideous rug at the foot of the bed, and large windows closed tight.

Francis showed Damian the walk-in closet to the left filled mostly with clothes for Julie, but a small section towards the back was his. 

“Anythin’ from here’s fine, and there’s also a couple drawers in the dresser. I’m gonna go take a shower and wash the hospital offa me, so help yourself.”

“Thank you, Frankie,” Damian said, and smiled at him genuinely. It tickled something in Francis’ heart, and his cheeks felt tight as he smiled back too widely.

Maybe he does still want me.

Damian turned to the rack in front of him and slid hangers aside, the clack-clack of them muffled in the insulated room. Francis watched him for a moment, and half-turned away, but something caught in the corner of his eye, and he looked back.

There was something familiar about this, familiar in the way the younger man’s damp head cocked in thought, the way his shoulders moved as he slid hanger after hanger aside, the noises he made in contemplation. There was something familiar about it, and Francis couldn’t put his finger on it. His heart felt familiar, too, the way it throbbed with the nearness of the younger man, with his smiles and the way his eyes crinkled when he was teasing.

Francis shook his head of the deja vu, and walked away.

Chapter Text

“Alex, please don’t cry.”

But his sniffles wouldn't stop. He hadn’t cried like this since he was little, since the court took them away from their parents. That was years ago, and Alex was already a teenager.

“You’re not even thirteen yet, Alex.”

“I don’t care. I’m a teenager!”

“Alright. That’s alright.”

But his brother’s soothing, his placations didn’t work now. What was Frankie thinking, giving something like this away?

“What were you thinking, giving something like this away?!” The boy’s voice broke, and the sobs continued.

“It’s just a jacket, it’s not important.” Frankie reached out, touched his felt-covered arm, but Alex jerked away.

“Not important?!? How can you say that? We have so little , and you’ve never had a varsity jacket before!”

“Easy come, easy go, easy as that.” His brother’s face cracked in an easy grin, but Alex didn’t buy it.

“Yeah? Easy come, easy go? Well, what if I just left? Would that be so easy for you?” Alex stuck out his chin defiantly, trying to make Frankie understand.

“ Alexander.”

Oh ho ho. His big brother broke out his full name, the one he only used when he was being stern.

“ Francis.” Alex wouldn’t back down.

“You’re not goin’ anywhere, and I’m not goin’ anywhere, but a jacket is just a jacket. You’re so much more than that. You know that.”

Something in Alex’s chest burned, something that confused him, confused his feelings for his brother, but still he persisted.

Frankie’s varsity jacket, the only one he’d ever had, wrinkled under Alex’s iron grip. He knew that the football coach had given it to Frankie for free, Frankie told him the coach had an extra, that it was nothing, but Alex knew. Alex knew that this $450 jacket that fit his big brother perfectly couldn’t have been a castoff. He guessed the coach special ordered it, paid extra for fast shipping, so Frankie could wear it out on the field with his teammates at the next game. He was the youngest member on the team, but physically could hold his own, his shoulders already broad, his legs long, a reflection of the man he would become one day. 

Alex wore it in secret sometimes, when Frankie was out with his new friends. Their latest foster parents left them alone mostly, working early mornings and late nights, and that was alright by Alex. It left him plenty of time for his hobbies, to his little mechanical projects. Sometimes he’d sit in the stands working on homework, a solitary figure clad in a too-big scarlet and grey varsity jacket, watching his brother fly across the field.

It was here that he first saw a pretty cheerleader take an interest in his big brother, noticing the way she’d giggle with her perfect cheerleader friends, eyeing him, pointing at him, going up to him after practice to hand him a water bottle and towel. Alex saw the way Frankie would shake loose his dark curls from under the helmet, the way he’d scratch his head awkwardly and smile back at the girl. Alex couldn’t tell if the red flush over his face was from running around on the field, or from a blush.

Alex hated her. Frankie never looked at him that way, never blushed at him that way. He didn’t understand the sourness swelling at the bottom of his throat, threatening to climb his esophagus. 

And so, when the jacket disappeared one day, Alex knew what must’ve happened.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Big Strong Football Player,” he bet she said.

“Oh, hello, Ms. Pretty Perfect Cheerleader,” Frankie probably said in return.

“I think you’re just so handsome.”

“Ditto, miss.”

“Can we date?”  

Alex didn’t really know how people asked each other out, but he assumed it was something like this.

“I have nothing more in my life that I’d rather do than date you. Here’s my jacket! It means nothing to me. I don’t care that my little brother likes wearing it!”

His theory was confirmed as he sat shivering in the stands, cold moisture hanging to his clothes, and saw the pretty cheerleader walk out onto the field, wearing his jacket. A black pit opened in his chest, threatening to swallow him whole.

Alex snuck into the locker rooms when all the teens were on the field, barging in, just a little wisp of a thing, awkward angles jutting as he went through every locker, finally finding the one belonging to that girl . There, his Frankie’s jacket lay, smushed into the bottom underneath a few textbooks and a backpack.

He pulled it out carefully, not caring that the cheerleader’s stuff clattered to the ground, and clutched it to his chest, taking a deep breath. It smelled just like Frankie, but a little like some cheap perfume. 

Rage took over.

The locker room doors swung open, and happy chattering abruptly stopped upon finding the room scattered with torn pages, a backpack thrown open, tampons and lip gloss and pencils and notebooks scattered all over.

But Alex was gone, walking home alone, tears streaming down his face silently. It was dark and cold, and his knobby knees shook, but he put one foot in front of the other until finally, in the full dark, he made it back to the house.

His hand shook as he tried to put key to lock in the front door, and before he could finish unlocking it, it swung open, a panicked Frankie blocking out the light.

“Alex!”

He was pulled into a crushing hug, his face smooshed to Frankie’s chest, ear to pounding heart, deep breaths bringing Frankie’s scent into his nose, down deep into his lungs. Frankie slammed the door behind them, and pulled away from Alex.

Alex’s hands fisted in his shirt, unwilling to let go.

“Where were you?” Frankie’s voice was gruff, his eyes ringed in red, and he glared down into Alex’s eyes.

“I… walked.”

“Why didn’t you wait for me?!”

But Alex couldn’t maintain the eye contact, looking down, tears streaming down his face. The relief of being here with Frankie loosened his feelings, relaxing the band he held so tight at all times, and his hurt built up.

“Where… where did you get this jacket? I thought I gave it to-” 

Frankie was interrupted by his baby brother’s full-bodied sobs.

“Alex, please don’t cry.”

But he wouldn't stop, couldn’t stop. 

“What were you thinking, giving something like that away?!” The boy’s voice broke, and the sobs continued.

“It’s just a jacket, it’s not important.” Frankie reached out, touched his arm, but Alex jerked away completely, releasing his hold on his brother’s shirt.

“Not important?!? How can you say that? We have so little, and you’ve never had a varsity jacket before!”

“Easy come, easy go, easy as that.”

“Yeah? Easy come, easy go? Well, what if I just left? Would that be so easy for you?” Alex stuck out his chin defiantly, trying to make Frankie understand.

“ Alexander.”

“ Francis.” 

“You’re not goin’ anywhere, and I’m not goin’ anywhere, but a jacket is just a jacket. You’re so much more than that. You know that.”

A flush burned across Alex’s pale face. 

“Frankie, listen to me.”

His big brother gave a little sigh.

“I’m listenin’.”

“You… you have to keep things that are important to you, the things that others give you, that you love; Frankie, you’re so good at making friends, you joined the football team so easily, you’re able to fit in and make friends just like,” Alex’s voice broke a little again. “Just like that, so easy, but we always leave.”

“We’ll stay this time.”

“No, we won’t.”

“Yes, we-”

“Frankie, stop! Stop lying! You don’t know that we’ll stay. Maybe you didn’t notice, but they aren’t around enough, there’s no way we’d be placed with them permanently. They don’t care about us! But that’s why, Frankie! That’s why you have to keep what little you do get! What little good you get! Because we’re going to leave, and we’re going to keep leaving, but the leaving isn’t the important part. The leaving is easier when you have something to remember. This jacket, this is your reminder from what good you have right now.”

“Oh.” 

“We have so little.”

“We have each other, Alex.”

“But I want more for you! You deserve so much more! You’re such a good person, a good brother, and I love you so much,” Alex said, heart again burning. “But you don’t treat yourself good enough.”

A couple tears escaped from Frankie’s black eyes, and Alex saw the traitors fall, feeling he was getting through to his brother somehow.

“So you have to keep this. You have to promise me you’ll keep this.”

Frankie was quiet for a long while, looking down at his little brother.

…

Too long.

Alex huffed, and walked away, going to the kitchen, opening the drawer of pens, envelopes, old rulers and post it notes, finally finding it.

He stomped back to Frankie, who hadn’t moved from the front door. Those big black eyes looked down into his hazel ones, and he tore off the jacket, raising the permanent marker in his hand, writing in shaky, ugly letters on the inner tag:

A L E X

The cap slammed down onto the marker, and Alex glared defiantly into Frankie’s eyes.

“Now it’s mine, too! My name’s on it! You can’t give it away! I won’t let you!”

Frankie’s silence broke, a low chuckle spilling forth, rumbling out, unshed tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes. He pulled Alex back into a hug, big arms wrapped around the smaller boy, but this one that wasn’t desperate, this one was only softness and warmth.

“Okay, Alex. Okay.”

__________________________

Damian, clad in the lavender robe, slid hanger after hanger to the side, looking for anything that he could stand to be perceived in. Fabrics in blues, greys, and browns slid under his fingers, one after the other considered and discarded. A long scratchy red sleeve was quickly passed, too.

His hand paused on the next hanger, sliding back to the previous article of clothing. It was a worn-out jacket, scarlet and grey. A high school varsity jacket by the looks of it, based on the big letter on the front and lettering on the back. Damian’s nimble, pale fingers slid over it, inside of it, finding those four letters clumsily scrawled on tag inside the collar.

“Hmm.” 

He slid the garment aside, hanger squeaking on the rod, and continued his search.

Chapter Text

His legs are numb by the time he finishes ordering pizza and stands up from the toilet, steamy air swirling in his lungs. Francis isn’t stalling, he’s… carefully deciding which toppings are most appropriate for...

His guest. For his guest. Francis doesn’t know if he likes spicy or sweet, if anchovies will make him run screaming, or if they could earn Francis points because they’re his favorite.

In the end, he decides on pepperoni. Good, reliable pepperoni. Some people think it’s too plain, but others love its dependability, its consistent flavor and enjoyability regardless of where it came from. Good, old fashioned, boring pepperoni.

As his shirt pulls off over his head, the phone next to the sink rings with a jingle that he is all-too familiar with. 

Jules.

Her text is short:

dad emergency

look after Damian

ttyl

He calls her immediately.

“Hi, this is Julie, thank you for calling but I’m away from my phone right now-”

He doesn’t have her dad’s number, couldn’t call him if he wanted to. He read the text again:

dad emergency

look after Damian

ttyl

There’s nothing I can do about it now. Best keep moving, get ready, get some food into Damian before he passes out from exhaustion. Best to ‘ look after’ him, I suppose.

After the shower, his hair in damp, dark ringlets, clad in those worn-out jeans he loves so much and a thin, long-sleeved shirt, he makes his way downstairs to the kitchen. Lying on the island is a half-opened pizza box, but that’s not what makes him stop in his tracks. 

Damian stands in front of the kitchen sink, looking out the big windows, his back to Francis. He’s wearing one of Francis’ sweaters, sleeves rolled up, and a pair of very loose grey sweatpants. At his hip on the counter is a half-eaten slice of pizza, and in his hand is a cup of something gross and brown; next to him is that shitty bottle of booze Francis hides all the way in the back of the cupboard.

Damian really has a way of reaching too high and taking things down that he’s not supposed to see.

Finally, Francis speaks, breaking the silence.

“I see you found the pizza.”

“Mhm.” Damian’s voice is dull.

“Julie isn’t coming back tonight.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“She texted me.”

“Right.”

Damian takes a big gulp from the glass. “This is terrible.”

“You shouldn’t have to drink that. I have something better-”

“No, it’s fine,” and he drinks again.

It’s dim in the kitchen, only the uplights turned on, and the house is cold. Moonlight spills over the lawn and forest outside the window, silver illuminating a sleeping world.

“Frankie,” Damian says, turning and catching Francis helping himself to a slice.

“Yeah?” 

“Why do you drink this if it’s disgusting?”

“I s’pose cuz it’s what my daddy used to drink when I was a boy.” 

The pizza is cold, but still tasty.

“That’s a bad reason.”

Francis almost chokes from laughing, and his eyes catch Damian’s twinkling ones, a smile ghosting over his pale lips.

“Didn’t your parents ever do somethin’ that you swore you’d never do when you were older, but ended up doin’ anyway?”

Damian is quiet for a moment before answering, but the smile doesn’t leave his mouth.

“Dr. Edmund Glass was a gin man. I never developed a taste for it. Shitty whiskey is better than that plant-flavored bullshit.”

His father’s a doctor?

“The whiskey at your old apartment was really good.”

“I do have fantastic taste.” Damian’s eyes take in all of Francis’ form. “Shame it all burned up.” 

More cheese and bread shoves into Damian’s mouth and down his throat.

“This pizza’s good, though.”

“Yeah, they do a pretty good job.”

“Oh, Frankie.”

“Yeah, Damian?”

“It’s actually not my old apartment.”

“What?”

“It’s Macon Apartment 1.0. It’s under reconstruction now, shouldn’t be too long until it’s done.”

“I didn't know that. You plannin’ on moving back in?”

"Of course. I love that apartment, despite the state it's currently in. Why? Eager to see me go? I’ve hardly been here a day, Frankie.” Damian’s blue eyes fall to the kitchen island.

"I mean, you just got here, I'm…" 

...Happy to be near you. 

"Don't worry, I'll be out of your hair in no time."

“Does that mean you didn’t…”

“I didn't what?”

“That you didn’t plan this? Staying here?”

...

"Fuck no."

“Ah.”

“Frankie, is that disappointment I see on your face? I’m not some big evil mastermind, pulling strings behind the curtains.”

“But... you are . Like before, gettin’ hurt on purpose.”

“I’d really rather you pretended you didn't hear that.”

“You know I can’t. Even if you did orchestrate things so you ended up stayin’ here, I’d wanna know that, too. Maybe it makes me messed up, but… I’d be flattered if you had.”

Francis moves around the island to stand next to Damian, gently taking his hand. A pink blush steals across Damian’s cheeks, a red beacon even in the dark of the kitchen. Damian looks at their two hands intertwined, shy.

“You’re really something else, Frankie.”

It’s quiet for a little, pizza forgotten, when Francis says: “I want to show you somethin’.”

"What is it?"

"Do you trust me?"

Immediately, without hesitation, Damian replies.

Chapter Text

Cold, crisp, Georgian night air sucks into Damian’s lungs under the black helmet Francis gave him, too-big leather jacket flapping around his back as his arms tighten around the waist of the love of his life. Francis pats Damian’s hands, squeezing briefly, before turning up the throttle, shooting them faster down the shiny, black road.

His pulse throbs in his ears as he presses close, the equilibrium he’s used to lacking, holding onto Francis for dear life but loving every moment. If only they could always be so close, then he would always be happy.

It’s fast, and terrifying, and Damian’s never felt so alive.

“Do you feel better?” Francis asks him after his helmet comes off, back in the garage.

“Better, Frankie? When did I feel bad?” Damian’s forehead scrunches, but he’s smiling, a flush over his cheeks. 

“Just a feeling I got, ‘ts all,” Francis smiles at the younger man, standing there in a too-big leather jacket and too-big jeans, outfitted in borrowed clothing so he’d be safe, wrapped up in Francis’ armor.

Francis holds the door for Damian, then clicks the switch for the garage door to come down, gears grinding. Damian’s in front of the hallway closet shucking first the jacket, then a pair of borrowed leather boots. Sweat sticks his sweater to his back, and Francis blushes at the intimacy of the situation.

Clearing his throat, he slides by Damian and pads into the kitchen, getting a glass of tap water and chugging it, wiping his mouth dry after the glass is empty.

A soft voice calls from behind him.

“Frankie.”

Francis turns and finds Damian in his space, barely a foot away.

“D-Damian?”

A pair of smooth hands smooths over Francis’ chest, and Damian looks up at the doctor with big blue eyes.

“It’s just us here tonight.”

Francis looks down, his black eyes wide.

“It would be a shame to waste it.”

“I-”

But he can’t say anything else, because Damian leans up, capturing Francis’ mouth. It’s soft, and a little moist. Damian’s lips are perfectly shaped, perfectly sized; full and firm, yet yielding. His hands grab Francis’ shirt, fisting there, pulling the taller man down to his level. 

As Francis’ mouth opens, allowing a brief flick of Damian’s tongue to enter, his hands fall helplessly to Damian’s waist, narrow hips under his palms, the gapping edge of the borrowed jeans folding under his hands. Damian hums into his mouth, and that sound sends a surge of pleasure coursing down Francis’ spine. His hands clench instinctively, and Damian’s next gasp isn’t in pleasure.

Francis pulls away from him immediately.

“Are you okay? I’m so sorry, Damian.”

“No, no, I’m fine, I’m fine.”

Damian tries to pull Francis’ hands back to his waist, but Francis won’t let him.

“What’s wrong?” Damian’s blue eyes search Francis’ face, his usually-smooth forehead once again scrunching.

“You’re hurt.”

“No, I’m fine.”

Francis moves away from Damian, leaning against the sink, knuckles turning white as he grips the counter.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You could never.”

“But I have. And you’re banged up from this morning. Aren’t you tired?”

“Never.” Damian yawns. “Ignore that.”

“You know what? I’m tired. Didn't sleep too well last night,” Francis smiles but his jaw is tight.

“Are you serious?”

“I’m exhausted. Never been so tired.”

Damian looks doubtful.

“You might get lonely, without any company in that big bed.”

“If I had company,” Francis’ eyes smooth over Damian’s form, eyes roaming where hands refused to touch, “I’d never get any sleep.”

“I see,” Damian says. “Then… as your guest, can you do me a favor?” He gives Francis that classic Damian look; the one looking up under heavy lashes, head tilted slightly down, like a cat stalking prey.

Francis audibly gulps.

“Are you really not going to touch me?”

“I won’t.”

“Then… if I promise not to touch you, will you let me do whatever I want for five minutes?”

“Um,” is about all Francis can get out. His Adam’s apple bobs.

“Four minutes?”

…

“Three?”

…

“Two? Please, Frankie. Just two minutes,” Damian says, voice low and husky, batting his eyelashes up at his captive.

Francis clears his throat, and manages to get out: “O-okay. As long as you don’t touch me.”

Damian walks over to the microwave, setting the timer for two minutes. As soon as he presses START, back turned to Francis, he slowly pulls off the sweater he’s wearing, flexing his back muscles and giving a little shimmy.

“Frankie,” he says, and looks over his shoulder.

“Mm.” 

The man is as still as a statue.

“I want you to fuck me.”

The man is as silent as a statue.

Coming back to his love, Damian easily lifts himself onto the kitchen island, biceps and forearms flexing. He leans towards Francis and blows air at his face, stray black curls fluttering.

“I want you to fuck me until I can’t move, until my hips are sore, until I forget everything except what it means to be full of your cock.”

Damian watches him closely, so closely, looking for any crack in the barrier Francis put up to stop himself from tearing into him, and he finally finds it: a sharp intake of breath, and a visible throb at the front of Francis’ jeans. He slides off of the counter and takes a step towards the frozen man.

“You want that, too, don’t you? What other things do you want to do to me? What unspeakable ways do you want to consume me? You know I want that, too, don’t you?”

Another step, and he’s in Francis’ space, but keeps his promise: technically, they aren’t touching, somehow, despite Damian being able to watch Francis’ pulse pound in his neck. Two hands slip to either side of Francis’, under his arms, hands cold against the counter, and Damian is close enough that if Francis takes a deep breath, their chests will touch. 

“You don’t need to be scared. You can’t break me. I can take whatever you can give. I want everything you have to give.” Damian looks at Francis parted, moist lips before capturing his gaze again. “I want to shove so far down your throat that you taste me for days.”

A grunt escapes from Francis’ open mouth, and he slams his jaw shut, muscle clenching, and just as Damian’s mouth opens to say something even filthier, the timer goes off.

BEEP BEEP BEEP

“Oh, shame. Time’s up,” Damian says nonchalantly, and pushes off from the counter, standing up straight. He dusts off his hands, and shoots an easy smile at Francis. “I suppose you must be utterly exhausted now, having to put up with me. I’ll let you go to bed.”

He turns and takes a couple steps away before Francis stops him.

“Damian.”

“Hmm?”

“Maybe just… maybe just a kiss.”

Damian turns back to Francis innocently.

“Just a kiss?”

“Mhmm.”

“Why, gosh, that should be alright.”

He makes his way back over, looking up into Francis’ eyes, and Francis watches as that faux-innocence morphs back to predatory. Damian presses his full body against Francis, trapping him against the kitchen sink, a pale hand snaking up to tangle in black curls, sharply pulling Francis’ head down, their lips clashing too roughly. Hips grind against hips, Francis moaning into Damian’s mouth.

And just as quickly as it starts, it ends. Francis tries to catch his breath as his body grows cold, and Damian walks away, leaving him alone and aching in the dark kitchen.

A lilting voice comes to him from further in the house:

“Goodnight, Frankie. See you in the morning.”

Chapter Text

And that was that. He left me downstairs, like that, and after I scooped my jaw up off the floor, I went to bed. True to my word, I slept. Julie wasn’t there to steal the covers or complain or wake me up with her alarm, and I slept well. Suspiciously well. Or maybe not suspiciously. I thought maybe I’d toss and turn, thinking about Damian and the shape of his lips as he told me he wanted me to… do those things to him.

But I don’t. I sleep well, and hard, exhausted from the crazy day at the hospital. I sleep so hard that when I wake up, it takes me a minute to remember who I am, and where I am. In the end, I get up, get ready, and go downstairs for coffee, once again finding him there in the kitchen.

He’s dressed more scandalously, somehow, in a loose tank top that’s more string than fabric, his entire perfect torso and shoulders on display. Damian catches me staring again, and smirks at me in a way that makes my skin burn. I want to kiss that smirk off of his face, but I can’t. I can’t trust myself not to hurt him accidentally, not to go too far, and I don’t think he’d stop me even if I did. Which is thrilling, but also a little terrifying. This thing I feel towards him is so big and all-encompassing, and I don’t want to make a mistake. He’s too important.

Unlike yesterday, which was only a single Monday despite feeling like it lasted months, I don’t run away. We talk briefly, him laughing the way he does, but he looks better today, his blue eyes are clearer. Yesterday, he was so distracted, so distant, and I don’t know if our ride helped at all, but I’d like to think it did. Maybe today we can talk about where things stand between us. 

But. Um. Maybe not. I’m not sure what I’d say.

The drive to his facility isn’t brief, but it isn’t too long. Truthfully, I wish it were longer. I wish I could be trapped in this car with him longer, listening to him complain about his project and his coworkers; me nodding along, hmm-ing and huh-ing, as though I can understand anything about his work or know who these people are. Darcy, his best friend, I know, but everything he says about her is a compliment wrapped in a fake criticism, like the tamarindo candy my mother loves; spicy and salty on the outside, but unbearably sweet in the center.

I should really call her. It’s been too long. But-

“-MOther with Darcy.”

Wait, what??

“Huh? Your mother? You and Darcy are related?”

“No, MOther, Machine by any Other name. It’s the huge data compilation and analysis computer in the lab. It’s inside the WoMB.”

“The womb?”

“The Wonderful Machine that Beeps.”

“So the big computer is inside a room named beeping computer?”

“Mhmm.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Okay, but Frankie, consider this.” Damian spreads his hands apart in the air, turning them into brackets. It is very dramatic, and very cute.

Just like him.

“Beware MOther’s WoMB.”

“Who-what now?”

“Beware MOther’s WoMB!”

“...”

“It’s a plaque that I put up outside the door to the lab!”

“So… you named the room and machine something nonsensical, all so you could make outrageous plaques?”

“Yes! And it annoys Darcy! It’s a two-fer.”

His teeth are brilliantly white in his genuine smile, a smile that reaches his eyes and touches my heart. 

Thank you God for letting me bear witness to this moment, and thank you Damian for letting me see them.

“That’s brilliant,” and I can’t help but laugh, because it really is brilliant, and it’s ridiculous, and it’s just so fucking Damian.

“So, Frankie, I was thinking.”

“Hmm?” 

He slides his hand over mine on the gear stick, and my hand tenses. His skin is just so soft, and he’s so warm, and I’ve touched him so little. I’m wearing a light blue button-up, the sleeves rolled up, and his fingers slide down my arm, tracing little circles into my skin, nails trailing underneath. Damian’s barely touched me, and already all I can think about is last night, and how badly I want to do all those things to him.

“I was thinking…”

His hand slides up further, up my bicep, up my shoulder, up my neck.

“ Ah.”  

Shit. Was that me? Did I make that noise? 

I don’t know, but his fingers tangle in my hair, pressing against my scalp, the nape of my neck, and tingles run down my spine. He pulls my hair a little bit, and I really… my body responds to his touches, and muscles clench involuntarily.

Somehow I keep the car on the road, somehow I don’t black out and launch us into the trees. There aren’t any other cars around, this isn’t a well-traveled road, just a small two-lane asphalt path to Damian’s facility, and he takes advantage of this, takes advantage of the fact that no one is around and I’m trying not to crash, my hands gripping the steering wheel and gear stick so tightly that I’m sure they’re going to crack…

And he takes advantage, leaning close, his other hand reaching over. He touches my chest, sliding down to my stomach, sliding further until he’s-

“ Hnng.” That was definitely me this time. “ Damian .”

He kisses my cheek, kisses my temple, dry lips against my perspiring face. He takes my earlobe into his mouth, and his tongue is hot, the press of his lips too much, and as he bites down gently, his hand squeezes me below.

“ Fuck.”

It’s too much, it’s already too much. He squeezes me, gripping me through my slacks, the material too thin to put up much resistance. His fingers trace my length, what he can get to anyway, but if he continues much longer…

“When can I have you?” he whispers into my ear.

Anytime. Anywhere. Anything you want, I’ll give it to you, is what I want to say, but I don’t. Because I care about him, and he’s hurt, and I’m a good person. 

I’m a good person.

Am I?

“A… a week.”

“A week? Why so long?” I can feel him pouting at me, but his hand doesn’t stop moving against me, and he licks my ear. Electricity sparks down my spine.

“A week… you’ll be through the worst of th- the bruising. I mean, the h-healing. Hmm~”

“How about three days?”

“A week.”

“Five days.”

“Two weeks.”

“Ah, fine fine,” he concedes, and lets me go. My pulse pounds in my ears, and the loss of him against me aches. He settles back into his seat, and before I can change my mind, we arrive.

Damian opens the door, and I can’t look at him, but I know he’s smirking, because he always is, especially when he gets his way.

“One week. Including yesterday. See you after work, Frankie.”

My head jerks up to argue with him, but the door slams, and I’m alone in my car.

I’m alone, cold, and achingly hard.

How am I going to survive him?

Chapter Text

You're cute when you blush.

That's the text that pops up when I'm in the breakroom guzzling coffee like my life depends on it. And then:

😉😚🍆💦

And then… an indecent photo of him. It’s from today, he's wearing what he wore when I dropped him off this morning, so it has to be from today. It looks like he's in the bathroom, and his shirt is hitched up, his pants pulled down his hips just enough. Really, there's barely any skin showing, certainly less skin than an Abercrombie and Fitch model, but…

There's also the matter of the black leather harness wrapped around his torso, peaking out from underneath his shirt. 

…

He’s going to be the death of me.

"Hey, Frank."

Maureen comes in, startling me. I slam my phone down, hoping she hasn't seen the screen.

"Yes?"

“Whatcha doin’?”

“Nothin’,” I say, but sweat beads at my temples. “Do you need something?” She certainly looks like she does, standing there in her pink scrubs, holding a clipboard.

“We haven’t been busy today, so I was working on some backlog, and I realized I never finished billing Mr. Glass’ insurance.”

“Why wasn’t that taken care of months ago, Maureen?” My tone is harsher than I intend, but this isn’t the first time she’s been sloppy, and in our line of work, sloppiness leads to suffering, whether through inventory errors or errors taking patient histories, both problems I’ve had with her in the past.

She scoffs at me.

“It’s not my fault! For a company that prides itself on customer service, it sure isn’t helpful when it comes to insurance billing. I’m just doing my best here, Frank.”

I strangle my urge to facepalm.

“Of course. Where are you going with this?” I don’t want to discuss Damian with her, I don’t want her mouth sullying his name.

There’s only one person allowed to sully him.

…

What the hell? Where did that thought come from?

“Imagine my surprise when I found out that…” she smiles at me, her veneers glowing under the harsh fluorescent lights. “Frank, How old would you say he is?”

Maureen does this sometimes, plays these games, asks me questions that she knows the answer to in order to prove a point. It’s exhausting.

“I’m not sure, maybe twenty-eight or twenty-nine?” 

I take a sip of coffee.

“What if I told you that he’s older than you?”

My traitorous mouth spits coffee all over the scarred table in front of me.

“What?”

How is that even possible? I suppose I never actually asked him about his age, and I suppose it doesn’t really change anything, but all the same… it’s surprising. A small doubt has been nibbling at the back of my skull, that maybe his interest in me is just because he’s young, because he hasn’t met that many people, because I seem more interesting than I actually am because of a ten year age gap, because somehow I’m exotic compared to the people he must know and meet in California. But…

That’s not even close to the truth. We’re the same age, and he still wants me. 

I don’t know what to do with this information. Does not compute.

Maureen comes over with a few rough paper towels and hands them over as she goes about dabbing at the scratched table-top. My mind is spinning, and I don’t hear her at first.

“-Mrs. Moore?”

“Huh?”

“Do you think your wife knows?” She’s smiling again with that shark smile.

“Does Julie know what?”

“How old he is?”

“No? Maybe? I don’t see what bearing that has on anything.”

“Frank… do you really not know?”

“Do I really not know what ?”

“I’m not sure it’s my place to say.”

“I’m tired of this, Maureen. Spit it out.”

She smiles again, folding her hands in front of her, and I feel like I’m playing right into her hands, but I don’t know how to get out of them.

“They’re fucking, Frank.”

Chapter Text

While I'm getting chapter 100 ready, I just wanted to say thank you so much for every page you've read, every bookmark, every kudos, and every comment over the last two years. They mean the absolute world to me. 

I hope you enjoy what comes next.

-UB

12/19/20 9:45pm pst update: 4,656 words written.

12/20/20 1:18pm pst update: 7,396 words written.

12/20/20 4:02pm pst update: 10,325 words written.

12/20/20 10:03pm pst update: 10,788 words written, timeline progress.

12/21/20 4:46pm pst update: 12,149 words written, timeline progress.

12/29/20 11:00pm pst update: 12,827 words written.

12/30/20 1:05pm pst update: 13,347 words written.

1/3/21 10:46pm pst update: 16,363 words written. (we’ve hit 100k+!!!!!!!!!!!! Ahhhhhh 💥)

1/4/21 11:36am pst update: 17,117 words written.

1/4/21 10:16pm pst update: 18,217 words written.

1/7/21 6:10pm pst update: 19,258 words written.

1/8/21 12:57pm pst update: 20,429 words written

1/10/21 1:42pm pst update:  21,579 words written

Chapter Text

Damian TGIF's

It’s still Friday morning, which means that my supervisor, Syphus Lee, is still on the conference call with Darcy when I return from the bathroom, his head projected onto the wall of screens like the Wizard of Oz. He’s more handsome than that charlatan, and taller, but he’s just as scheming; just as deceptive.

Just as dangerous.

“Nice of you to rejoin us, Mr. Glass.”

“Of course, Nowhere else I’d rather be.” It’s a pun on the town’s name, of course, and I throw my most glowing smile at his floating face as I slide into place next to Darcy at the long table in front of the screen.

Syphus continues where he left off, in the spot that prompted me to go to the bathroom in the first place. Teasing Frankie is fun, but I really don't want to lose my job because I couldn’t control myself and threw a temper tantrum. This job is essential to my end goal, a vital piece of the puzzle to freedom.

“As I was saying, Todd-”

Fucking Todd. I hate that guy. He’s the worst.

“-will be flying out there to lend a helping hand. His talents are wasted at the main campus, and you’ve made a gallant effort, Damian, to regain the ground lost recently in regards to project progress, and I’m so sorry about your change in lodging-“

Oh, you mean how Satan incarnate blew into the Peach State to fuck me over?

“-and I don’t blame you for that, of course, but during this time it’s important, while you’re dealing with these things, to have additional support so everything stays on track. I know this project is your baby, but sometimes babies need more than one, or two , Darcy,” Syhpus nods to my best friend. “...parents. And this baby in particular is costing the company a lot of money, and…”

He goes on like this for a while. Two weeks ago I was back at the main campus in the San Francisco Bay, bored but working, handling things, and now I’m here, very much so no longer bored, but Syphus still has to meddle, has to put his tentacles where they don’t belong. 

What is it about the men around me and their desire to fuck me over?

And sending Todd? Seriously? I hate that fucking guy. Darcy hates that fucking guy. He’s just. The worst. When we worked on the Camp Group project together, he wussed out, couldn’t hack it; his upbringing was too soft, too privileged, too lacking in diversity.

On the surface, we should be best buds: both from upper-class families in ‘good’ neighborhoods, both from Ivy League universities, both white.

Cue the eye roll.

I have my suspicions that Camp Group was meant to fail, that that’s the reason why they assigned two white bread yuppies and an intern to the failing program. But they underestimated me, and they especially underestimated Darcy. They correctly estimated White Bread Man. And they fortunately deeply underestimated those kids.

They were all amazing, and Marcus Wallace was definitely my favorite. He and I still keep in contact, and whenever he needs a recommendation letter written, or needs an internship, anything really, he hits me up. If I have a legacy, he’s it. And using the tools I taught him and a few of the others, they won’t have to worry about paying for college or much else...

As long as they’re careful.

And hopefully Marcus gets to where he needs to go in case my name ends up worthless, in case knowing me becomes a liability instead of a boon.

We all make our choices. I hope that if there are consequences to mine, that they don’t blow back onto anyone I care about.

Francis fades

I’m in a haze the rest of the day. I can’t leave work early, of course I can’t, I have a duty and responsibility, and I can’t leave the hospital with Maureen doing whatever the fuck it is she’s doing, whatever game she’s playing.

Has she always been this deceptive, this awful? Has she gotten worse in the last few months since Damian blew into town like a summer storm? Or am I different now, am I more aware, are my eyes more open?

The more I try to think it through and figure it out, the more a blurry image of that damned church pantry flickers in front of me; an image of Damian with his hand up Jules’ dress, of her looking angelic, and him looking equally pure, and how perfectly they look together, like two…

Like two angels.

...

More like devils.

Chapter Text

The hospital shuts down for the night, and the road to Damian’s work is long and quiet. My mind is wholly occupied by the only two things that matter: Damian and Julie are fucking, and I don’t know what I’m going to do when I see him. I think back on the past week, and nothing makes sense anymore.

Tuesday night, Damian came back from a run as I finished boiling spaghetti, wearing that same damned pair of teal shorts and my faded blue Georgia State shirt that he wore Monday. I know he has other clothes, he has to in that mountain of boxes in his room, but there was no way that my obvious lust towards him in those clothes had escaped his notice; he had to know what he looked like in those shorts, what he did to me. 

The teal of the shorts complimented his skin perfectly, and I watched beads of sweat streak down his toned thighs; it was everything I could do to not reach out with my tongue and lick.

He drank water from a wet glass at the kitchen sink, and I don't think he knows what it does to my heart to see him do that . Julie refuses to drink anything that doesn't come out of a bottle, even though we spent, or rather, I spent, a fortune on a refrigerator that has quadruple osmosis. Triple osmosis wasn’t good enough for her, she said she needed quadruple, whatever that means. But after we got it installed, she said the water was too soft, like drinking clouds, and she still drinks from plastic water bottles.

What were you expecting, Jules? What did you think it would taste like? 

Regardless, it’s of no consequence. I only drink from the tap, and to see Damian doing the same... Damian, who is supposed to be above it all, who is supposed to be a big city slicker, a man who only drinks the best scotch his scotch guy sends him; whose father is a doctor, who had to have grown up with that privilege; whose entire wardrobe is carefully selected and curated, his velvet shoes costing more than what most of my patients make in a month...

Well, it doesn't make sense, this dichotomy, and I find that endearing. I wonder who he would be, who he would have become, if he grew up in a place like Nowhere instead of … well, I actually don't know where he grew up. But wherever it is, I can’t imagine it’s much like this. The way he talks, the way he carries himself, the way he seems to prefer finer things; I hold none of it against him, I judge him for none of it; it’s what makes up him , and what and who he is is a glorious thing.

So Tuesday night, he came back, and it was dark out so I was worried about him, about a car hitting him, but he came back, dripping in sweat, wearing those shorts and that shirt, drinking from the tap like a normal human being and less like a god wrought in marble, and…

I pulled my wandering gaze away, focusing instead on the spaghetti.

“Frankie,” he said, all the teasing inflating his voice like a balloon.

“Hmm?” I replied, occupied with my task.

“It was your rule.”

“My rule?”

“One week, you said. Made me promise and everything.”

I was caught staring, and so said nothing; I had nothing to say in my defense. I did, in fact, do that to myself, because I cared about him, I didn’t want him to be hurt further because of me; I didn’t want to become so lost in devouring him that I aggravated his bruises or injured him.

...

That was a lie.

“Golly gee, that run really felt good, but my muscles are sooo tight. Can you massage them for me?” he asked, and appeared before me as an incubus, stripping his shirt off slowly over his head. The skin over his stomach was soft and smooth, hairless, the muscles underneath rippling as he leaned, and I was reminded of how sleek he’d felt underneath my hands, the few times I’d had the honor of touching him.

My eyes trailed over him, my mouth watering, cock throbbing painfully, but then my sight fell to his bruises, and all shallow arousal dissipated, replaced with a possessive fire that scared me.

He was only allowed to wear my bruises. 

...

Stop. It was what I’d told myself my entire life, to stop, to hold back, but did I really have to keep holding myself back? Did I have to keep denying myself? He wanted me to take what I wanted from him, and wanted me to be ‘myself’, whatever that meant.

I couldn’t imagine it, I didn't know what that would look like, but I knew I wanted him; I'd figure out the rest as I went along.

But in that moment, he needed to heal, needed to rest, and I-

“Why won’t you touch me?”

“I told you, Damian, you need to heal, and-”

“You liked my bruises before.”

“No, I-”

“The way you reverently kissed them, stroked them. I know you liked it, Frankie. So why is this any different?”

“Because you’re… you’re hurt, and…”

“And what?”

He walked over to me, too close once again, his scent filling my nostrils, swirling around my soul. I desired him, God knew I desired him, but…

“M-mine,” was all I could say, and I looked down, looked to the side, looked anywhere that wasn’t him, my cheeks burning, heart pounding against the inside of my ribcage.

“What’s that? I couldn’t hear you.” Damian pressed himself against me, his sweat-soaked shirt chilling me, but the skin underneath? It was a fire liable to burn me up.

“You’re only… a… allowed…” I couldn’t say anymore, couldn’t bear it.

Of course, that wasn’t good enough for him. The only thing good enough for him was all of me, who I was way deep down inside, the thing that scared me most in this world: 

My truest self.

He pressed against me bodily, leaving no room for breath, and his left hand whipped out quick as a flash, fisting in the hair at the back of my skull, and pulled , wrenching my head back .

Damian growled into my ear: “Not allowed to what?”

It was a threat, a promise, and it broke me.

How dare I tell him he’s not allowed to do anything? That voice asked. Who the fuck am I to demand anything of him? 

It was a challenge: how am I going to make him?

The tendons of my neck stood out like craggy peaks on either side of my throat as they fought to raise my head against his grip in my hair, but in the shifting tectonic plates of our struggle, the stone that makes me up was stronger and more absolute than the stuff he was made from. It was a fight I would always win, and was born to win. His strength was powerful, but mine was absolute. 

I rose to my full height, pulling him along with me, intimidating him, glowering down at him, and spoke the words clearly, intentionally so as to not be misunderstood.

You want to understand me, Damian? Let it be so.

“You. Are not allowed . To bear any bruises, marks, soreness or pains. Other than that which I gift you.” He looked up at me with his too-blue eyes, pale cheeks flushed pink, eyes wide, and audibly gulped. “Is that understood?”

“Yes, Frankie.”

I walked away from him then, taking a plate of spaghetti to the small dining table in the vast kitchen, the one we used more than the grand one in the dining room, and started eating. 

If he can torture me, I can tease him. It’s the Law of Reciprocity. 

The kisses I allowed him those three nights hadn’t been chaste, hadn’t been empty; they were pregnant with promises I intended to keep.

But will they just be more vows I’ve broken?

And now… with what Maureen said, my stomach flips uncomfortably, and I want to throw up that disgusting coffee. 

What do these revelations mean for me? Maybe I really am just something he’s occupying himself with. Maybe playing with my family is how he stays out of boredom in a place like Nowhere.

...

...but a quiet, stony place inside of me doesn’t believe that. That small warm diamond at my center trusts him, tells me not to let such a misunderstanding ( for surely it’s a misunderstanding, Francis ) get in between us, not when we’re making something that feels…

It feels important. He feels important.

That small gem inside fights with the overwhelming desire to fall into anger, fall into pain and regret and betrayal, a war which carries me through the rest of the day, carries me down the forested road to his worksite.