Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Late summer, 2023

Bill sat in his car in the parking lot. The bright pink neon sign flashed above him, and he already hated it. He’d probably hate this place, too. But going to his usual joint was a non-option since running into fucking Steve over there. Steve, that smarmy dick from the other engineering team at work. He’d learned more about Steve’s taste in men from one night hiding in the corner of a strip club than he ever wanted to know. Did his wife know?

Maybe seeing Steve there was a one time thing, but Bill sure as shit didn’t want word that he was at a strip club to get back through the channels at work. Driving farther out of town should have been far enough, but fucking Steve lived in the suburbs. Ugh.

Bill looked up at the sign and frowned. This was the worst name for a strip club. The Bou-Peek. Like boutique but too cutesy. Like he was going in to see petite women in maid outfits, decidedly not what he was looking for.

His sister, Becca, had found this place. The reviews online seemed decent, said the best dancers in the state. The food was supposedly good, although a lot of puns in the food. Sounded… cheesy. In fact, the whole place seemed cheesy, from its run down exterior to its tacky pink and blue sign with its’ winking eye. Peek. Hah hah hah. The reviews on the cocktails were that they were good but more pun names. Some theme nights, although that seemed like a bit much. He looked for a regular night, good strippers, no Steve Jacoby up in his shit and smirking come Monday morning.

He pulled out his wallet and peered into it. He tended towards retreating to the corners, escaping notice from anyone working. In turn, he didn’t typically need to tip dancers as they didn’t tend to come over to someone keeping to themselves. He usually used the cash to tip his server, but he figured it was polite to keep some on him. Polite, he thought to himself, as he thought about going into a strip club that sexualized men.

Bill didn’t expect much, though, and at this point, all he wanted was a place where he wouldn’t run into anyone from work. And he had put off getting out of his car long enough, so he tucked his wallet away and got out of the car before he lost his nerve. The flashing sign alternated between illuminating the whole parking lot to almost nothing, and he found it distracting. All the more reason to get inside.

The bouncer eyed him as he came in, and set down the hammer he was holding. “It’s not for you,” he drawled, jerking a thumb towards the wall behind him. “I’m hanging a painting. Entry’s $20. Need to scan your ID.”

Reasonable, so Bill passed over a $20 bill out of his wallet along with his ID.

“Read the rules,” the bouncer added, tapping a sign on the counter.

Bill skimmed it. No drugs, no harassment, no homophobia, no transphobia, no body shaming, no racism, be respectful, consent is sexy, this is a queer owned establishment, don’t be a dick or you’ll be banned. He could deal with that, protects the staff and the customers both.

“Tip the bartender. Name’s Tess, treat her and everyone else here right, and you’ll get out in one piece.” The bouncer held up the hammer, waving him in. “I’ll be here all night.”

A bouncer implying he’d break his fingers if he didn’t tip the bartender was new, but not the strangest thing he’d encountered. In his circles, it was downright tame. 

He entered to a cacophony of sound, of music and people, and he scouted out the room, looking for a place that would be out of the way. He didn’t need the food or the drinks yet, although Pickle Dickles sure sounded good right about now. Except for the part where he’d have to say that out loud. 

Bill didn’t even know exactly brought him to these places. He hated people, hated being around a bunch of other people, but he hated staring at magazines in private even more. At least in a strip club, he wasn’t the odd one out. A lot of people were like him, wanted to settle into a corner to watch. He knew how to spot it, and there was a silent acknowledgment of not sitting with someone else that clearly wanted their space. No one stared, no one gave a shit that he wanted to sit alone and admire attractive men. He’d never figured out how to come out, and after a while, he’d stopped trying. He wasn’t interested in relationships or anything more than just enjoying what he could enjoy, in a place where it didn’t matter, a place that it was safe to do so. The few years he’d been stuck working at home during the pandemic had given him some time to think, and even though he’d loved that solitude, it had eaten away at even him.

He edged up to the bar, remembering the ominous warning from the bouncer. A brunette woman came to him, smiling. “What’ll you have?”

“Coke is fine.”

She snorted. “You don’t come to The Bou-Peek for a Coke.”

“No, I’m probably here for strippers, and Coke,” he shot back, and knew it was a mistake as soon as the words left his mouth.

She started laughing. “This is a respectable establishment. We don’t serve cocaine in the front, only in the rear.”

Bill blinked. “I’ll take a Pepsi.”

“I’ll fix you up with something.” She turned and started making a drink.

“No fancy shit,” he muttered, watching her work, but he did appreciate her attention to detail.

“This one’s on the house.” She pushed the drink over to him, it was garnished with a blackberry and… a cinnamon stick.

“One Coke and Dagger.” She grinned.

Bill took and sip and was pleasantly intrigued. “It’s fine.”

“You sound surprised.”

“It’s cinnamon. In cola.” The complexity of the spicy taste made him keep coming back to take another drink. 

“I was kidding about the cocaine, no drugs,” she added. “In case you’re enforcement.”

“Do I look like enforcement?”

“No, but that’s how they get you.” She winked and turned to the next customer.

He slid a few dollars over the lacquered surface of the bar, and headed for a table in the corner.

A woman came up to him, a cheeky smile on her round face. She wore a suit with a bright blue flannel square tucking out of the pocket. She set two menus down in front of him, one for food at one that appeared to be a rate sheet.

“I see Tess got you a drink. Need anything else?”

He glanced at the food menu, the lighting making it hard to read. He didn’t even know what to do with a services menu, so he ignored that. “No.”

She held out a hand. “I haven’t see you here before. I’m Dani.”

Bill didn’t shake her hand and after a moment she pulled her hand back. She continued, “I don’t actually work this side, typically.”

Bill narrowed his eyes at her. How many sides are there to a strip club with “Chicken Strips, Film At 11” on the menu? But he didn’t ask Dani.

“I’m the owner,” she continued. “We’re short a server tonight, we’re calling in a spare because we’ve got a good lineup.” She sat down at one of the extra chairs at his table. “We like to give new clients a rundown of The Bou-Peek and what we do here.”

“It’s a strip club, I don’t need a pamphlet. I read the rules, and the website.”

Dani chuckled. “Well, you’re getting it anyway.” She put her hands on her knees. “We have a simple mission here, which is to provide services to our customers, but to us, customers are more than people that pay. We want to ensure that every guest has the opportunity to find what they’re looking for here.”

Bill considered telling her that he was pretty sure he could find men here, and he wasn’t looking for anything else, but every variation of it in his head sounded rude. “I’m not looking for anything.”

“Everyone’s looking for something, sugar. They just don’t always know what it is yet.” She leaned back in the chair. “We pride ourselves on our diversity, and if you don’t like a body type, don’t look. We have larger shows that show everything we have to offer. Dancers will also come through the crowd.” She pulled out a round coaster-looking object out of her pocket and set it on the table, green side up. “If you don’t want to be approached by dancers, put this on the table, red side up.”

“Like a Brazilian steakhouse?” Bill pushed at the disc and flipped it so the red side was up. Time enough for that later.

“Something like that. Green side up for meat.” She tapped the services menu. “You can sit in a corner for the cost of cover, but we also have several private options. Rooms where you can watch, and the dancers can’t see you, and private dancing areas. It’s all no touch by default, some dancers might allow certain things. Boundaries are agreed upon ahead of time and put in writing so there’s no misunderstanding.”

Was she ever going to stop? “Do you chase a lot of people off with this?”

“Am I chasing you off?”

Bill sipped at his bizarre soda, contemplating that. “You might. Not what I’m here for.”

She grinned, getting to her feet. “You can ask any of the staff if you need help. Wait staff will check on you, but dancers will keep their distance. If you see a dancer you like, you can also let us know. We have a system.” She tapped a couple of numbers on the table. “You can text us a dancer or an idea of what you want, and a table number, and we’ll send someone over. We’re experts in helping people find what they might like.”

“I don’t text.” Not like he’d probably want someone that close to him, anyway. 

“You can just ask us, then. You might be surprised. You can ask for someone to just come to your table and hang out, it’s whatever you want. Just make sure you pay attention to the rates and tip well.” She grinned and grabbed the two extra chairs at his table. “Enjoy the show!”

She walked away, taking the chairs and depositing them at other tables. So, she knew his type. Bill felt somewhat seen, which is normally the last thing he wanted but this time, it didn’t leave him with that sinking sick feeling of interacting with people. Maybe the reviews that said that this place knew what people wanted were more on point than he gave them credit for. He flipped through the services menu, but he wasn’t ready to dig into anything that required that much commitment. He’d just sit back and watch this time around. He sank back into the seat, trying to make himself invisible. The people aspect brought anxiety, but at least he has his corner now.

The lighting was typical seedy strip club, but he appreciated that there were USB ports to charge phones along the walls. A nice touch, for someone who was going to stay all night. Not that it did him much good, he left his old flip phone in the car. He refused to get a fancy smart phone, too much money just for everyone to track him everywhere. No thanks. No texting for him. He could in theory do it, but he didn’t love it. In fact, despised was a better word for it. 

He glanced around, taking it all in. He had a complicated history with his own sexuality, a lot of years of not knowing who he was or what he wanted. His father had been a preacher, and the idea of even having a sexuality had been something that he’d been so shamed for that he’d pushed down. And that’s not even cracking into being gay. Becca was the only one that knew. And Becca has never had a problem with putting herself out there. Margaret probably figured it out, but that may as well have been a lifetime ago.

It had only been the last few years that he’d managed to let go of what he now recognized as internalized homophobia. Too many years of having a twin sister who refused to let him completely withdraw, and who had lovingly referred him to a therapist to work him through to the point that he could at least be a little more at peace with himself. A little.

But Becca had more than her share of the abuse that came with not lining up with parental expectations. 

He glanced at his watch: 20:58. As he thought about how it must be about time for something to happen, the lights dimmed. A whole parade of men came out on stage, and Bill sat back, enjoying the view. This was nice. He couldn’t pinpoint a specific demographic, they were all attractive men ranging from probably early 20s to maybe his age (he’d never seen a stripper over 40), no one body type. Some of the best moves on the stage were from the least trim dancer up there, and Bill found himself leaning forward, looking over all of them. And a stripper with a gray beard, dressed simply in short shorts and suspenders, with a stunning smile. 

He wasn’t sure what other people were supposed to think or feel at these things. For Bill, he certainly felt it in his pants, but that seemed secondary to just getting caught up in the whole thing. He always watched from a distance, but he wouldn’t mind getting closer. Maybe not “flip the coaster to green” close.

He glanced around to see if someone else might flip a coaster over, and spotted a couple at a table nearby. Probably a good twenty five years older than Bill, if he had to guess, and they were sitting right against each other. They started laughing as they flipped over their coaster, then raised up their glasses and toasted.

He felt a pang for what that must feel like, to have someone to laugh with over exotic dancers in a club. Someone that he wouldn’t have to hide desire from, could be honest with. Just enjoy things with. He’d never had that. He looked away, staring down at his own red coaster. No, this was fine. He could enjoy second hand, without any awkward eye contact.

Some strippers on the stage moved into a set of coordinated dance moves, while others moved into the crowd. Bill hid behind his hair, trying to not be noticed, even though his red coaster would protect him. The couple next to him had no such kind of reservations and they were actively flagging down dancers, holding up their green coaster. 

Two dancers started their direction, one who looked South Asian and maybe in his late 20s, and the older dancer with the smile. The older dancer broke off, laughing. “This is Valentino, take good care of him!” he called, continuing away.

”Thanks Armond!” one of the men called after him. 

Bill watched him go, admiring the view. That one had a walk, a presence. He watched as he went to a door into another area of the club, before he sat back and let his hair obscure his face as he looked at the dancer at the table next to him. He wore a pair of saffron yellow pants and an unbuttoned shirt, and sat down, legs splayed wide, and started talking with the couple. They laughed together, and then the dancer swung his leg over the chair as a song started. He started with his shirt on and then pulled it over his shoulders, using it as a prop, then Bill looked away as he gave a powerful tug at his pants to remove them in one smooth motion, throwing them over the shoulder of one of the men. It left him in underwear, which left nothing to the imagination. 

They didn’t seem to be asking for much, and seemed more interested in cuddling with each other and watching avidly than making overt moves at the dancer. However, they slid ample cash over the table, playfully tucking a few into the dancer’s equally saffron yellow shorts. They whistled as he removed the shirt for real, dropping it on the floor.

Few could manage that color of yellow, but this guy definitely could. And he worked for every one one of those tips, using the spare chair as a prop as he gyrated.

The song ended and Valentino blew them a kiss and gathered up the cash ($1s, $5s, a number of $10s), tucking it into his shorts before he picked up his clothes and sauntered off. He made a slow show of it, thanking them over his shoulder. The couple looked delighted and kissed each other. Bill tried to ignore them by keeping his eyes on Valentino’s ass.

“I like that one, he’s going to do good here,” one of the men remarked, flipping the coaster over. “Third day and he’s looking delicious.”

“Agreed.” The older of the two chuckled. “I like to think that we make it low pressure.”

“Low pressure?” The other started laughing. “I’m not sure if that’s accurate given our… reputation.”

Bill didn’t need to hear anymore, and he felt like he’d already heard more than he should have. Whatever they’d asked of that dancer, it hadn’t been to take everything off, but Bill certainly wasn’t disappointed.

He took his coaster with him and headed back to the bar, finishing his drink as he went. He watched the shows on the stage from the edge of the bar, including the return of Valentino, who now danced against a pole, getting close enough to gather more tips, along with other dancers. As the current song reached a peak, five of them turned from the audience, pulling their breakaway shorts off and turning back in all their glory, with perfect timing. Bill blinked and sipped down to the bottom of his drink. Ok, the cocks were worth the wait. There was a time when he couldn’t even have that thought. He supposed that was progress. 

Bill watched the show for a while longer. The dark haired dancer that could shake it better than anyone else in there was doing a dance off to the side, and oh god he was hung like a horse and Bill turned back to the bar, taking an interest in the drink menu as a blush crept into his face.

“So, think you’ll be coming back?” Tess asked, grinning as she slide another drink across the bar.

Bill thought about that for a moment, then nodded. “If the hammer guy doesn’t break my fingers.” Here’s hoping Steve didn’t come along again and fuck it all up.

Tess laughed. “Joel won’t break your fingers. You’ve been a perfect gentleman.” She nods towards the door. “He just kicked some asshole out of here for getting in a grope on one of the dancers.”

“It’s right there in the rules,” Bill muttered, sipping at his drink as he passed cash over the bar. “Fucking idiot.”

“Oh, I like you.” Tess collected the money. “Stay as long as you’d like. And let me know if you see anything you like.”

Bill thought about that. He wondered about the one that had come by with Valentino. “There was an… uh.” How to say older without sounding offensive? “I’ll think on it.” He wanted to ask about the dancer with the gray beard, but didn’t want to crack open that egg. That meant telling someone what he was thinking. An absolute no. 

”We have a lot of dancers that work in the back, private dances. I can get you in.”

Oh no, he wasn’t ready for that. “No thanks.” Bill wasn’t even sure how interested he was. 

“Well, there’s no pressure here. You don’t have to do anything you don’t feel like. You can come in here and drink every cola variation I can come up with.”

That sounded terrible, but it was nice to just be somewhere that people saw him without seeing him too close, he supposed. Bill glanced down at his watch and realized that it was late, and a Thursday night. His alarm would go off way too early, and the long commute to the office was always garbage on Fridays. He had a ways to drive home tonight, on top of it. “Shit, I should get home, I have work in the morning.”

“Better get going, then. Need that day job for tip money,” she teased.

He finished the drink, then headed for the exit. He spared a glance at the couple near his original corner, and saw they’d moved closer to the stage, throwing bills onto the platform.

He made it to the door, glancing over at Joel as he passed. His eyes traveled past the bouncer to the giant abstract technicolor painting of a dick that now hung behind him under the neon “The Bou-Peek” sign. Even though it was strange, the artist was clearly a very talented painter.

“Admiring our cock?” Joel asked. “Dani thought we should hang a dick behind the dickhead.” He shrugged. “At least it’s well hung. See you later?”

Bill had been on the verge of saying see you later but that took the words right out of his brain and he left out the door, walking out under a darkened sky.

He got into his truck and looked at his phone. Two missed calls from Becca, one voicemail. He picked up the phone and flipped it open.

“Hey Bill, was hoping to catch you before I slept. Wanted to hear all about your outing.” He heard a yawn. “But I’m exhausted today, so call me fast before I fall asleep! Love ya.”

He turned the phone over in his hand, looking at the time stamp. That had been a half hour ago, and Becca never went to bed this early. It would take him at least a week to unpack this shit, so he wasn’t sure how much he’d want to talk about it.

Still… He should try. She sounded genuinely tired, and he didn’t want her to worry. He dialed her number and listened to it ring, ring, ring.

No answer. Odd, especially for Becca. She’d never not answered the phone at this hour. Usually he could call her as late as 01:00 and get some kind of reply. The voicemail beeped.

“Hey Beck, it’s me.” He never knew what to leave on these. “Well, bye.”

He’d try again tomorrow, if she didn’t call him first.

Chapter Text

Frank drew in a breath, kneeling in front of a man that had only given his name as Kevin. He threw his head back, running a hand over his stomach and under the front of his underwear. The other man leaned forward in his chair, meeting Frank’s gaze as Frank shifted to look at him. Frank flashed a smile at him, pulling his hand back.

He’d already raked in a tidy sum of tips from Kevin, no surprise since he’d danced for Kevin before and knew what he’d want. Kevin liked simple: someone to come into the room like this was a professional relationship, and have everything turn decidedly not professional. Frank had entered wearing with a full breakaway suit and tie, and stripped through all of it. He didn’t love the outfit, it was too warm and he sweat too much in it, but Kevin loved it. Frank tolerated it for the tips.

“God, Armond,” Kevin murmured, reaching forward with a $10 bill. He slid it into Frank’s waistband. “Let me see it all.”

“Yes, sir,” Frank purred, throwing his head back, then getting to his feet in one smooth motion. Kevin also liked being called “sir.” He turned from Kevin and inched his underwear down, then turned back, rolling his body and hips with the music. He still wore the tie around his neck, and soon it would be all he wore.

He sat down in the chair across from Kevin, spreading his legs wide, and reached down to touch himself again. Kevin licked his lips and sat on the edge of his chair. Frank lifted his hips, thrusting upwards, and pulled his underwear down until he sprung free. He moved back into a standing motion and let the garment fall to the floor, then he walked back towards Kevin, handing him the tie. Kevin tugged downward and Frank got back on his knees, leaning back. “I want you to remember this when you go to work tomorrow,” Frank murmured. “Will you remember?”

Kevin nodded. “Will you?”

Frank chuckled. “Make me remember.”

Kevin pulled $50 out of his wallet and tucked it into a band on Frank’s tie, and Frank moved for all he was worth, thrusting up into the air while Kevin still held the tie. He pulled it from his hands and got to his feet, where he could dance a foot from Kevin’s face. For $50, he’d get to see the whole package, as close as Frank could get without breaking rules.

Kevin leaned back and spread his legs wide, his hands on his knees, and Frank took the hint and moved between Kevin’s legs. He could feel the heat off of his body and he turned with his back to Kevin, lowering himself to the point that he almost brushed against Kevin’s cock through his pants… but not quite. His ankle felt the strain, but the dance was almost over.

He glanced over and saw Kevin’s hand twitch like he wanted to touch Frank, but he didn’t move. Good boy. He moved with the music, shifting to turn back towards Kevin. He went down on his knees, slowly, rolling his body to move in and out and he lowered himself. He put his hands on Kevin’s as the music faded out. “Time’s up, sir,” he breathed into Kevin’s crotch.

Swallowing, Kevin nodded. He pulled his hands out from under Frank’s and took both of his hands, the only contact they’d agreed upon ahead of time. “You can’t ever quit this job. I need this.”

“Mmm keep tipping like you do and I’ll be here a while.” Frank grinned.

Kevin pulled a hand away and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Fuck.” He reached down and ran a hand over himself. “You’re a menace.”

“You’re welcome. Sir.” Frank got to his feet. “Same time next week?”

“Yeah.” He flinched. “No, not next week. My daughter’s got a concert. Week after, though.”

“Still playing violin?”

Kevin shook his head. “She moved to cello. Makes it harder to carry it around.”

“Well, I’ve got nothing on that.” He grinned. “She’s still good?”

“I’m so proud of her.” Kevin smiled, standing. He pulled out one last $20 and left it on the chair.

“So the week after it is.” Frank leaned against the wall casually, as Kevin got up and left.

As soon as Kevin closed the door, he slumped against the wall, wiping the sweat off his brow with a hand. He gathered up his clothes and the tips. He’d paid for the dance at the bar, which Frank would get a cut of, but Kevin had left $245 in cash, which was well above average. Frank had no idea how Kevin explained this to his wife, and he didn’t ask. Customers could volunteer what they wanted, but Frank asked very little that didn’t build on what customers had already told him. Kevin had a tendency to overshare, but Frank didn’t mind. He held a lot of secrets for customers, it came with the job.

It left him with a pretty good take for the night as a whole. He slipped out the back door of the room that led to the dancer dressing rooms. He almost bumped into Valentino on the other side. Aka Raj, and as much as Frank had conditioned himself to use stage names every time he left the back, he mentally switched to people’s names. It felt too strange to fling around stage names in serious conversation.

“How’d it go?” Raj asked.

Frank gave him credit, he was new on the job and could still make eye contact when faced with a fully naked man in a hallway. “I have cash and I lost all my clothes.” Frank held up the ball of laundry. “So, I can’t complain. How’d your night go?”

“That first couple tipped really well, and I got three more dances after that.” He flashed a boyish grin that would take him far in this industry.

Frank smiled back. That sounds about right, and that’s why he tried to get the new dancers over there for a warmup. “They’re good for that.”

“Have you danced for them before?” Raj asked.

Frank let out a laugh and started back down the hall towards the dressing room, Raj following. “Oh god no. That’s a line I’m not crossing.” He chuckled as he walked. “That’s my dad and my stepdad, Raj.”

“That was your dad?” Raj squeaked. “Why didn’t you say something, I would have-“

“You did exactly what you’re supposed to do. Dance for the nice men.” Frank grinned. “And then get more dances.”

“I could never,” Raj muttered. “Is it weird?”

“That they’d drop in here?” Frank chuckled, pushing open the door to the dressing room. “Not really.” He dropped his clothes into a basket sitting at his station. “We’re adults and keep our distance. They like to try to support dancers and this place, the pandemic was rough. You’re lucky you missed all of that.” Frank had mostly missed the pandemic as a dancer; he’d mostly dealt with it as paramedic. Some days, he wondered if it would have been easier if he’d just gone the route of some of the other strippers and created an OnlyFans account instead of continuing to push on being a medic. 

“He’s okay with it?”

Frank snorted, reaching for his locker and digging out some clothes. He’d love a shower, but what he’d love is a shower at his own apartment. He started getting dressed. “That I do this? No. He doesn’t care, as long as I’m enjoying what I’m doing. I’m an adult, and he respects that.”

“Oh that’s so cool.” Raj grinned. “Nice to hear that from someone.”

“What do your parents think you do?” Frank asked, pulling on his shirt and starting to button it up.

“They just think I work on campus at the college.” Raj shrugged. “It’s technically true, I study. Which is work.”

“Good technicality.” Frank had heard many variations of the same story of the years.

“It works.” He pulled his own clothes out of his locker and left them on his table. “I’m going to take a shower. See you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow!” Frank sat down and pulled on his underwear and pants, then put on socks. He could feel the soreness in his ankle, an old injury from his paramedic days. He put his foot up on another chair across from him, reaching forward and stretching his foot back towards him. He winced, feeling the ache in his ankle.

“What have I told you?” Tess asked, coming into the dressing room. “You need to watch that foot.”

“It’s fine, ‘mom’.” Frank moved his ankle in a circle and the dull ache intensified. “It’s not bad.”

She took a stance across from him, her arms crossed. “Still need to take care of it.”

Frank nodded. He couldn’t really afford to take much time off, not with the rent here. “It’s not nearly as bad working in the back.”

“Oh, is that why you worked in the back?” Tess chuckled. “I assumed it was because your dad was out there tipping the new guy.”

“I like the back. Gives me a chance to talk to the customers. Use the smile to get them to come back.” And he did like that part. He liked letting clients talk about themselves, about what was going on in their lives. It gave him the chance to figure out what they wanted, which would result in more tips.

“Your dad’s still here, by the way. Haven’t quite kicked him out. Got a soft spot for him and that husband of his.” Tess gestured towards the door. “I’m headed back out, if you’d want to say hi.”

Tess left before he could stop her, so he pulled out a paper bag out of his locker which contained a present for Tess and Joel. It didn’t hurt that his dad was a big tipper to Tess, too. He didn’t mind that his dad and stepdad came here; they’d had the discussion ahead of time. But his dad never asked for anything crazy of the dancers, he mostly only had eyes for his husband, Jeff, and so they came in sometimes to give the newer dancers a chance to practice. Or sometimes just to look together.

He popped a baseball cap on to hide his sweaty hair and to make himself a bit less obvious to anyone in the bar, then grabbed the paper bag and headed back out to the front. As Tess promised, Zach and Jeff sat at the bar, chattering with each other. Jeff’s laugh echoed across the entire bar, and Frank smiled when his father laughed back, more restrained but genuine.

He remembered days when his father hadn’t known how to laugh like that, and Frank smiled as he sat down at the stool next to his father, setting the bag down on the counter. “They’ll let anyone in here,” he commented.

“Well, you’re here,” his dad retorted, grinning.

“Hah hah.”

Tess put a glass of water, no ice, in front of him, and he looked at her gratefully. “Thanks, Tess.” He pushed the bag towards her. “Fudge, from Mom. For you and the family.”

“I’m eating some before we leave. Sarah and Ellie ate all of it last time.” Tess smiled and put it back behind the bar.   

Frank looked back to his dad and stepdad, sipping at the water. “You can ask the dancers for more, Dad. They can handle it, and it might get them more business.”

“It might, but he seemed like a sweet kid and what would he think when he realizes he waved his dick at your father?” Zach swirled his drink in his glass.

Frank thought of Raj’s reaction to the events as they stood. “I don’t know, he’d probably think that my parents give good tips.”

“We give good tips anyway,” Jeff noted.

“Ugh. Fine.” Frank gulped at the water.

“Zachary Brightman, do you ever think about how weird it is that between us we spawned two strippers?” Jeff asked, giving his husband a sly grin.

“Maybe we both have a secret stripper gene.” He paused and looked around. “What if we missed our calling?”

“It’s not too late to start, though, is it?” Jeff asked, and Frank choked on his water.

“Sometimes it’s too late to start. Also, let’s not.” Frank laughed. “Trust me, enjoy your retirement. The last thing I’d be doing at your age is this. The job takes a toll on the body.”

“So did your last job,” Zach noted.

“But I just made a lot of money, without getting puked or bled on.” He shrugged. “Less burnout than frontline response for a pandemic. Besides, it’s still EMS.” He grinned. “Earn Money Stripping.”

Zach cracked up. “Oh now that one’s good. Should sell that on a sticker.”

“I’m pretty sure someone beat me to it.” He gulped at his water, finishing the glass. “Not all easy here though. It’s still emotional labor, sometimes. And a lot of work. But space to get my shit together.” At least he could know generally what to expect when he came to work, and he had a safe space to work in. He’d had none of those guarantees on the streets as a paramedic. He’d found some things in common between the two, the ability to negotiate, think fast on your feet, trust your instincts. But there were trade offs; as a paramedic, he had to be in good enough shape to work. Here, he had to be in good enough shape to work it, and for people to pay for that. “And a lot less of Mom’s fudge.”

“Your loss, my gain,” Tess pointed out.

“She’d send it to you anyway,” Zach added. “Dolores loves you guys.”

He wasn’t wrong. Frank’s mother loved Tess and Joel, and Sarah and Ellie. Tess and Frank knew each other through some hard times, and her presence had anchored Frank. Frank’s mother had been more reassured about her son’s career change knowing that Tess was there. 

“Speaking of your mother,” Jeff added, “we have breakfast with her and Randy in the morning, so we should get going soon.”

It warmed Frank’s heart that his parents had overcome the mess that was their entire marriage and divorce. On the whole, their family had come through it all just fine, in the end. It gave Frank some hope for his own situation, in a way.

He hugged his dad. “Thanks for stopping in, Dad.”

“We gotta look out for each other.” His dad pulled away, studying his face. “Are you doing okay?”

Frank sighed. He didn’t need the reminder of what today was. “Yeah. I’d done a pretty good job ignoring today, until now.”

Zach winced. “Sorry. It’s just that… and believe me, I know it, divorces are hard. The first year is the hardest.”

“Then as of today, nowhere to go but up.” Frank tried to smile but wasn’t sure he managed it.

“You’ve got this,” Jeff added, warm as always, and came around to hug Frank.

There was always something special about Jeff hugging him, likely because Jeff was a lot of the reason why they were all such a tight knit family despite everything. Jeff had been the first person Frank hugged when it had finally become clear why so many things about his family were fucked up. Jeff had opened the dialogues that had brought them back together. “I almost believe it when you say it.”

“Oh but not when I do?” His dad added, putting his arms around both of them.

Frank chuckled, trying to not hit either of them with the brim of his hat. “Thanks. Both of you.”

They said their goodbyes and Frank headed back to the dressing room to collect his laundry. He ran into Dani coming out of her office on the way, and the look on her face concerned him. “Are you alright?”

She stared at him a moment, then looked down the hallway. She grabbed his arm and pulled him back into the office, shutting the door. She rubbed at the bridge of her nose. “I’m not alright, and I shouldn’t be telling you any of this.”

Frank blinked. “What happened?”

“Our lease is going up in two months.”

“Fuck.” He put his hands on the back of one of the guest chairs in the office. “We’re barely making the margin as is, aren’t we?”

She nodded, dropping herself back down into her chair, rubbing at her eyes and tilting her head back. “We’re going to have to come up with something.”

“What we need is someone that knows marketing.” Frank sighed, dropping down into one of the chairs. “I won’t say shit to anyone else.”

“Thanks. Shouldn’t be telling you, but you’ve seen enough shit not to panic.”

Frank didn’t panic, but he also didn’t love this news. He reached into his pocket, pulling out some cash and setting it on the desk “I can chip in extra, if it helps.” He’d come up a little short, but he could make it work if he needed to.

“Don’t.” She shook her head, reaching over to push the cash back across the table. “Appreciate the gesture, but what we need is more business.”

“We’ll figure something out.” Frank thought for a moment. “My sister’s a journalist for the Boston Herald I can always ask her about how to get some coverage in the paper?”

“For a queer strip club?” She laughed. “I think we might need something more targeted, but I love the thought.”

“I can ask her, anyway.” Frank, smiled, reaching across the table and taking Dani’s hand. “I’m here to help.”

“Thanks.” She patted his hand. “Joel hung your painting in the entry. It looks good. You should come check it out when you’ve got a chance to go to the front.” She waved a hand at him. “Now get out of here, and don’t worry about this.”

Frank hugged her and left, retrieving his laundry from the dressing room before heading out through the back to get to his car. He didn’t trust Tess to not ask questions about what his father meant about today, and he’d rather just be alone with his thoughts. He drove back to his apartment, his mind whirling with possibilities for The Bou-Peek. Maybe he could sell some of his paintings? But who was he kidding, he couldn’t sell enough to pay his own bills, much less theirs. There had to be some way, though. One year anniversary of his divorce, and work was struggling. Not the way he wanted to end a Thursday night.

He reached his apartment, and parked his beat up red Honda Accord in his parking space. He sat in the car for a long moment, taking a deep breath before getting out. He walked to the door and unlocked it, flipping on the lights as he did. He didn’t love how small it felt, how empty, but it was what he could afford now. He tossed the pile of laundry into the washer (thank goodness for small mercies like having a washer and dryer), and took his hat off, hanging it up on a hook on the wall. He stripped off his clothes and shoved all of them in the washer, too, but didn’t start it yet.

He dropped the cash on the counter along with his wallet and phone. He missed the big windows of the old apartment, the better water pressure. God, the water pressure. Maybe he should have showered at the club. Then he wouldn’t have to wait to start the washer.

His ex would have teased him and called him an exhibitionist for walking naked through the apartment, but now there was no one to comment on Frank’s lack of shame as he headed to the bathroom. Turning on the water, he let it warm up while he stared at himself in the mirror. He swore it looked more gray every day, but at least he could still make money. It wasn’t going to last forever.

He stepped into the shower and let the not quite hot enough water wash over him. All he’d wanted to do was painting, but it turned out that art didn’t get the appreciation that it once had. Or maybe Frank just hadn’t seen all of the artists that struggled while few made it. Or maybe he’d lost that spark that moved technically good art to something that moved people. So he kept painting, trying to find the spark. 

He’d been saving up to open a gallery, he just needed a few more big sales. Or a lot of small ones. He’d be there if he could do a few more shows, but it wasn’t easy. All the shows were too small, and he’d been trying for a big show for a while. The ones he did hadn’t found the right audience. He had to hold onto all of the money he made, and had tried to invest what he could. It remained as a buffer just in case, but every time Frank dipped into it, it put him that much farther from his own goal.

It had been easier with two incomes, but Frank and his ex had both managed to fuck that up.

After showering, he put on shorts and a t-shirt and headed back out to the kitchen to tally up his cash for the night. He pulled out a pen to enter it in his ledger. His stepbrother bought him the pen for his last birthday, it had little EMS symbols and an ambulance and said Should have been a stripper. Frank loved it and bought four more just in case he lost one.

With business out of the way, he kicked off the washing machine and headed to the living room. Most of it had been taken over as an art studio. He had room for little more than a couch, a couple of plants, a chair, and art. If he wanted to watch TV, he had one in the bedroom.

Many of his paintings were in storage with his mother or father, but he also had managed to fill all of the meager wall space in his apartment with them, too. He’d lately been painting several of the dancers from the club, and his living room was filled of paintings of barely dressed bodies flowing to music that no one could hear. He’d set out a blank canvas before going to work, and a set of oil paints. Sometimes he preferred watercolors, but he’d had a feeling about what he’d want to do when he got home.

Before that, though…

It’s been a year, Frank. And that’s a year since signing the paperwork, not even counting the months where everything had started collapsing.

He retrieved his phone and checked his messages. Love from his sisters and mother, too. He loved that they cared, but hated that everyone made such a fuss over it. People got divorced all the time, and it wasn’t a big deal. Except it was a big deal, and it had been to Frank, too.

He stared at the phone, drawing in a deep breath. It was time. He opened his contacts list and scrolled until the entry he wanted in the list. He opened it, and pressed edit. Scrolling to the bottom, he hovered over the delete button for a moment. He should delete it. He should move on. His heart beat too hard in his chest, the finality of his potential action staring back at him.

Pulling his thumb away, he scrolled to the top and edited the entry. Salim Hasad-Brightman became Salim Hasad, the entry in Frank’s phone now matching the reality.

Small steps, he supposed, even if he hated that he didn’t have the nerve to just delete the number entirely.

He threw the phone onto the couch and stood up, going to the canvas. There was nothing he could do for that but he could at least do something nice for himself. The bright saffron he associated with Raj came to mind, so Frank prepared a palette of rich browns and yellows. With the sound of the washing machine as a strange background soundtrack, Frank set himself to capturing a dancer in motion, pushing away the thoughts of what had been and instead focusing on now.

Chapter Text

“So, you went?” Becca asked, sipping at a glass of wine in Bill’s kitchen.

“Yes, yes,” he muttered, looking from her down to the carrots he’d been working on chopping. “But you’ll have to wait until I check on the chicken.” He went to the oven and pulled out the roasting pan, sitting it on a trivet and lifting the foil. He checked the temperature and nodded, then threw in the vegetables he’d prepared. He covered it with foil again and put the whole pan back into the oven.

“Oh, I know I can’t interrupt your cooking ritual.” She grinned. “But now you’ve checked the chicken.” She held up his glass of wine and he took it from her.

Bill sighed, leaning against the counter as he contemplated the wine. “Yeah. I mean, what do you want me to say? It’s a strip club. It’s not like I’ve never gone before.”

“But that other place was… eh.” Becca shrugged, then tucked the streak of bright blue in her hair back over her ear. Her hair was thinner, now, but she’d been lucky to not lose much to the chemotherapy. “It was fine, but it wasn’t cool. It was a lot of the same. This place sounds a lot more interesting.” She pulled her iPhone out of her pocket and tapped on the screen a few times, then pushed it over towards Bill. “Did you even look at their dancers?”

“Isn’t it a little weird to post them to the website?” Bill peered down at the phone and tried to pretend he didn’t have a temptation to scroll. “And you know that advertising companies track your browsing history and now you’re going to get ads for strip clubs?”

“In case you forgot, I work in advertising.” She shrugged. “And I already get ads for sex toys. So don’t scroll too much, you might find one.”

Bill didn’t rise to that bait and instead looked down at the phone. “But what if people run into them in public? Or if their families see this?”

“They’re working jobs like you and me, Bill.” Becca set her glass down. “I don’t think anyone’s exactly forced to put their picture on the site. It’s good advertising.” She chuckled.

Sighing, Bill idly scrolled through the phone (it was Becca getting stuck with the ads from here on out, and since she’d started it, he’d finish it). He recognized some of the dancers from the previous night, including “Valentino”, whose whole face wasn’t in the picture, but a generous part of his body was. Introducing Valentino, new to The Bou-Peek!

“There’s almost anyone that someone would look for. A couple closer to our age, different body types, skin tones, it’s great.” She chuckled. “I wonder if any of them are open to dancing for women? Was it a complete sausage fest there?”

“Mostly, but not entirely.” Bill scrolled through another page of dancers before he found another he recognized. A full torso and face shot of “Armond.” He paused. It wasn’t just that Armond looked closer to his age, as Becca put it. He had nice eyes, a smile that was hard to look away from, and actual body hair (something he appreciated about this club over the last one). He stared for a moment. “This guy was there last night.”

Becca whipped her hand out and grabbed her phone back, shifting her reading glasses to see. “Oh this one’s tasty.”

“He’s a person, not a snack food.” 

“No, he’s a snack. We need to catch you up on internet lingo.” She grinned and set the phone down between them. “So when are we going?”

Bill rolled his eyes. “Becca, I’m not going to go to a strip club to enjoy naked men with my twin sister.”

“You don’t have to. They have private rooms. But I want to see what this place is about.” She scrolled through the list. “Oh they do dances for women, too! They even have a ladies for ladies night!”

“Then go on that night?” He appreciated her support, but he wasn’t sure he was ready for this.

“Come on, Bill. When was the last time we went out and did anything? It was before the pandemic, for sure.”

“Becca,” Bill warned.

She turned her blue eyes on him, and he tried to ignore her gaze but he couldn’t. He looked at her, idly noticing her left eye with its sliver of brown, and he just deflated. She looked so hopeful.

“Please? This could be good luck for my remission tests.”

After everything she’d been through the last three years, he couldn’t say no to her. The second battle with leukemia of Becca’s life, and during a pandemic at that. The early days she’d been sick, he’d hardly been able to see her because of the risk. It had been the hardest time of their lives, and they’d started having video calls. He had to do them through his laptop since he didn’t want a fancy phone, though.  

“Fine, okay.” He took a heartier drink of his wine. “I’m going on Thursday again next week.”

“Great!” She flicked through her phone again and frowned. “I have a meeting that night, but I can come over after that.”

“You have a lot of meetings lately.” Bill studied the puffy area around her eyes. “And you look tired.”

She pulled off her reading glasses and rubbed at her eyes. “Turns out you have to work extra hard after so much medical leave.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“It’s also corporate America.”

“You need to take care of yourself. You’re not even to remission yet, don’t push it.” He hated this part, the waiting to find out if it was over or not.

She raised her glass. “A toast to bullshit, and to finding out next week if I’m back in remission.”

Bill clinked his glass against hers and finished his glass of wine. “So, what’s the plan? Meet me at the club Thursday night?”

Becca giggled. “Come on, say it. Where we’re going.”

Bill sighed. “Fine. We’re going to The Bou-Peek.” He scowled. “It’s a stupid name.”

“It’s a great name.”

Bill refilled their glasses of wine. “How are you, though? Really?”

“I’m fine,” she assured him. “But I’m tired. It takes a long time to get back to normal, I guess.” She reached up and patted her hair. “And for me to get the rest of my hair back.”

“Hair is replaceable. But you’re not, so I need you to take it easy.”

“Bill-“

“Beck. I said what I said.” He reached across and put a hand on hers. “You’re all I’ve got.”

“Well, if you went outside sometimes!” She smiled to take the sting off and held onto his hand. “You’re stuck with me, big brother.”

“I guess so.” He didn’t mind. The first time she’d fought leukemia, they’d been seven. He’d come out of it very protective of her, a protectiveness that would thread it’s way through the rest of their lives.

“You’re not wrong. That we’re all we have.” She sighed, pulling her hand back and wrapping both her hands around the stem of her glass. “Do you ever wish that Mom and Dad had…” She sighed. “I don’t know.”

“Allowed us to express emotion? Not disowned you for being bisexual?” He cringed, knowing that it came out blunter than he’d planned.

“I was going to say not fucked us both up. I’m not the only one that had to struggle because of that.” Bill had to fight to keep his relationship with her and his parents, and he’d pushed his own sexuality down as far as he could in the struggle to not rock the boat. It hadn’t been a struggle worth fighting, in the end. The familiar wave of guilt washed over him, the way that the became the “good child” by virtue of not disclosing his own sexuality to their parents. It wasn’t fair to Becca, but they’d long ago agreed that this was about their parents, not them. “Well, nothing we can do about that shit. We have this house left, and it’s half yours. Any time you want your half, or if you want to move in here, you’ve got it.”

“I know. And I love you for it. But for now, I’m fine. We can deal with that when it’s time.” She looked around the kitchen. “Although this place could use a refresh, get rid of our parents’ shit.”

“It’s perfectly functional,” he muttered. He didn’t want to change anything, this was how the house was and he felt safe in it, just as it was.

“Your definition of functional and mine differ. Then again, I’ve seen your cellphone. Hey, have you seen the pictures from the house next door that’s for sale? They made a lot of great improvements to it. Although they’re asking too much, it’s going to be on the market for a while.”

”I really don’t want neighbors again,” Bill muttered. 

“It’s because they ask too many questions about your security system, your expansive garden, your overage of chickens, and your refusal to go to the grocery store,” Becca pointed out.

“At least I don’t have to pay a limb for a box of eggs. And I made it through the pandemic without getting into a toilet paper riot. You can’t fight with people if you’re already stocked up and hiding in the basement.” Sure, people thought he was eccentric. They’d probably shit themselves if they knew he had a secret bunker of supplies, and monitoring equipment. But had been enough to take care of him, and Becca, when they’d needed it. He’d keep that up as long as he could, just in case. The last few years had taught him he’d done the right thing by investing in surviving. 

”You should grow more fruit,” Becca pointed out. “I worry about you, Bill.”

”What, because I want to be ready for when shit happens? The last few years proved I was right.”

”You were right, and you are right.” Becca sighed. “I just don’t want you to feel like this is all there is.”

Bill grunted. “I’d rather go back to talking about the neighbor house, at that rate.” He knew Becca meant well, but Bill didn’t know how to be anything but prepared. 

They wandered off into a conversation about potential house improvements over dinner, and despite the push and pull with Becca, he was grateful she was here.

Thursday came along, and for Bill it couldn’t come soon enough. It had been a long, busy week. Steve had tried to say hi to him at least once a day, and he’d successfully dodged him. Steve likely did see Bill in that strip club, and Bill didn’t want to have that conversation. Or really any conversation. He made sure that he had his phone in case Becca called.

“Welcome back,” the bouncer rumbled as Bill entered.

Bill grunted and held out his ID and the cover charge, staring at the large dick painting again. Joel scanned the ID and then took the cash. “I know the rules already.”

“Good. Hate to kick your ass out later. Don’t forget the tips.” He pointed to an ATM in the corner. “If you forgot, I have change.”

Bill shrugged. “I’m good.” He paused for a moment. “Someone’s gonna meet me here. Her name is Becca, don’t be a dick.”

“Long as she follows the rules, too, we’re good. Bartender said you left tips, so you’re cool with me.”

“Do you keep track? Like a big tally board in the back?” Bill shot back.

“Nah. But you learn quick who the assholes are.”

“So you don’t think I’m an asshole.”

Joel paused and leveled his gaze at Bill. “Oh, I think you are. But you’re the kind of asshole I’m fine with.” He waved Bill off, and Bill headed into the club.

The same sights as last week greeted him, but this time Tess flagged him down. “Hey there! What can I get you?”

Bill thought about that for a moment. Last time he’d had no alcohol, but something wouldn’t hurt. Might soothe his nerves a little. “Whiskey, neat.”

“Changing it up. Love it.” She held out her hand. “ID.”

“I’m old enough,” he muttered, sliding it across the bar.

“Rules are rules.” She reviewed his license. “Do you go by William, Will, Bill?” she asked, handing it back and turning to the array of whiskeys.

“None of your business.”

“Then you’re Will. What do you want for whiskey, Will?” She chuckled. “Whiskey Will.”

God, he couldn’t take this. “I’m not Will, or William.”

“Bill it is, then.” She brought down a bottle and poured it with a flourish, and he dropped his credit card to start a tab. She passed the drink over, with a coaster for the drink, and a red and green coaster for him.

With that, he headed back to the same corner as before. He may as well stake it out before Becca showed up and tried to get him to sit somewhere more in the middle of things. He set the coaster down red side up and sat back to watch the dancers on stage.

A couple of dancers started to pass by the section he was sitting in, and one stopped. Bill recognized him as Armond and he froze, his drink halfway to his mouth. His eyes were brighter in person, especially when he met Bill’s gaze. Well groomed beard, graying, darker hair with bits of gray. He wore shorts and a buttoned up short-sleeved shirt in dark red, with a pair of low black boots. That highlighted his legs far too much for Bill’s comfort. 

Armond stopped and waved the other dancer on, then smiled at Bill. “Nice to see you back!”

Bill wondered how to unfreeze and force himself to take a drink of his whiskey. What was he supposed to say? Nice to be back? “Uh. You, too.” God damnit.

Armond laughed. “It’s okay, I’ve done it. Like when the person at the gate says have a nice flight and you say ‘you, too’.”

Bill almost smiled at that. Relatable. “Yeah.”

“I’m Armond.” He held out his hand, from a distance that they both knew Bill couldn’t shake it. “I’d shake your hand but, coaster, ten feet away.”

Bill looked down at the red coaster, then back to Armond. “Are you even supposed to talk to me?”

“I’m not approaching, I’m yelling from over here.” His smile just wouldn’t stop. “But I can go, I just thought I’d say welcome back.” He chuckled. “You know we don’t bite?”

Bill slipped at the whiskey, and it burned going down. “I’m pretty sure the health department would object if you did.”

Armond laughed outright at that, and a few people stopped and looked their way. Bill started to think that having a stripper shout at him from ten feet away was worse than just having him come to the table. He shot his hand out and flipped over the coaster, just to end the discomfort and overt attention of it.

Armond grinned in triumph. Bill had to look away and instead set his gaze on Armond’s legs. His legs were… wow. He walked with strides that showed exactly how long his legs were, well muscled. Bill stopped looking at Armond’s legs because they were distracting. He wished his mind had the capacity to figure out what those legs could do. 

“May I sit?” he asked, indicating the chair across from Bill. Dani hadn’t come and taken the chairs away this time.

Bill nodded, watching him flip the chair on the other side of the table backwards and swing his leg over it. He sat with his legs spread wide and his hands resting on his knees. Bill pushed down the combination of irritation at the interruptions, and the arousal at the casually suggestive pose.  “Listen, you seem nice, but I generally like to be left alone.”

“I’ll go if you tell me to. But I had a question.” He folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. “Do you want to be left alone, or do you not want anyone to see you?”

Bill blinked, pulling his whiskey towards him. Did they hire fucking mind readers now? “Fuck off.”

“You’ve got it.” Armond’s grin was still cheerful as ever as he put his hands on the back of the chair and started to get up.

Fuck. Now what? Shit. He didn’t want to be that asshole. This guy was talking to him, he didn’t want him to just go, even if it meant paying for it. That’s what he was here for. “Wait.” He fumbled for his wallet, pulling out a $10 bill and put it on the table. “Listen, I…” What the fuck to even say?

“You haven’t done this before,” Armond said, kindness evident in his tone.

Bill didn’t bother answering, they both knew the situation, clearly. “How did you know I’d tell you to stay?”

“I didn’t. If you’d told me to leave, I’d be gone, and it’s no hard feelings.” He pushed the money back to Bill. “Try it again but get closer to me.”

Bill didn’t know what to do with that, but Armond moved to the bench next to Bill and gestured at the pocket on his shirt. Okay, it’s just a pocket. Bill could do that. He took a drink of his whiskey, then reached out and tucked the $10 into Armond’s pocket. His hand shook a little.

“Good,” Armond rumbled, and Bill felt that approval through his entire body. “Do you want me to help you figure it out? We can start with simple things. Sound okay?”

“Yeah,” Bill whispered, and Armond tilted his head towards him. “Yes,” he said, louder. What was he doing? The company was nice. It didn’t feel like as much pressure as he thought, it just felt like having a conversation. But his heart slammed around in his chest, and he wasn’t sure how far he’d be able to take this.

“You can ask for things you want. You’re more likely to get them if you tip. Tips are a way of saying that you like something.” Armond smiled. “I’m here for your entertainment.”

Bill didn’t think he wanted to be entertained, he just wanted… he didn’t know what he wanted. “I don’t know.”

“What you want?” Bill nodded, and Armond put his hands back onto the table. “Some people start with talking. Others go straight to the rest. We could start with a conversation and see where it goes?”

Bill fished in his wallet and pulled out the first bill he found, which was a $5. He added it to the pocket on Armond’s chest. “I guess.” He laughed a little. “I’m really bad at this.”

“I like a challenge.”

Bill tried to relax but couldn’t. His shoulders felt so tight, as if they’d snap. “Then you’ll probably like me.” How terrible at social interaction could a person be? He downed the rest of the whiskey, he couldn’t take it anymore, he needed to get his nerves to stop screaming at him.

“Can I tell you a story?” Armond waited for Bill’s nod, then he continued as Bill set his glass down. “The first time I went to a strip club, it was in San Francisco. I was 21, and so that’s… well.” He grinned. “A while ago. These places were a lot different back then. I was a mess.” He chuckled. “You know, let’s revisit that story after we’ve gotten to know each other Maybe it’s too soon for that one.”

Frustrating and too coy for Bill’s own good. “So I can’t just pay for the rest?”

“Not with money, no.” Armond winked.

Bill chuckled, wrapping his fingers around the empty glass as the whiskey rolled around in his stomach. “Hard to picture you as a mess, I guess.”

Armond held his hands up. “I’m a bad liar. Ask anyone here.”

Bill reached into his wallet and pulled out another $10, holding it in his hand. He reached for the pocket again, but Armond pulled back.

“Hold onto that a moment.” He reached up and slowly unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, and Bill stared at the sliver of chest now showing. Armond leaned back towards Bill.

Bill licked his lips and then cursed himself for doing it because how much more obvious could he be? He slid the money into the same pocket as before.

Bill’s phone buzzed in his pocket and he didn’t want to check it, but he glanced at his watch. Becca’s meeting would be over soon, if it wasn’t already. “Aw shit.”

“You just got here,” Armond pouted.

“No, it’s not that. I’m, uh, I’m waiting for someone. But I…” He sighed. He didn’t know how to lie about it, and he didn’t know how to shut it down. “Okay. My sister wanted to come check out the club.”

“And you don’t want your sister to catch you sitting here with me?”

He thought about that. It wasn’t quite it, it wasn’t about being seen with a stripper. It was more about having to face Becca’s knowing look. “I don’t want her to tease me,” he grumbled, pushing his lips together.

“You’re letting me tease you.” He lounged against the padded back of the bench, like a smug cat. “You’re paying me to tease you, in fact.”

“That’s… it’s different.” He drew in a shaky breath. “She won’t be here for a bit though, I don’t think.”

“How would you feel about going to a private room in the back? No pressure,” he added, holding up his hands again, a very disarming gesture. “But if you’d like to continue this conversation somewhere that’s not right here, maybe it would be more comfortable.“

Bill glanced down at the services menu on the table. $50 for 15 minutes, he could work with that. “15 minutes?”

“How about this: 30 minutes, same price.” He flashed an even bigger smile, and Bill started to wonder if his smile had the capacity to consume him. That was horrifying. “First time customer discount. I don’t do that for everyone.”

Bill wasn’t an idiot; he knew a sales pitch when he saw it. A sales pitch, but a very tempting one. Fine. He’d take it. What’s the worst that could happen? He’d have a shitty half hour and it would be over, and he’d be out $50 plus some tips. “Okay. Yes.” Bill fumbled his wallet and had to dive to catch it. “Can I put that on a card though? I don’t know if I brought enough cash for…” 

Armond lowered his hands, and flashed Bill another brilliant smile. “I’ve got you.” He stood and held out a hand. “Come with me.”

“Am I going to get body checked for touching you?” Bill asked, looking from the hand to Armond’s face.

“Not for my hand, no.”

Bill stared at Armond’s hand and weighed his options. He could just follow him; he didn’t need to know how Armond’s hand felt in his. Or he could take the hand, and let himself be led. Let himself not have to think about it for just a moment. Bill didn’t know how to stop thinking, how to not be hyper vigilant and in charge of what was happening around him at all times. This went beyond taking a hand; Bill recognized this as a moment where he had to choose to let go. 

God did it even matter? Sure, he was paying for it, but even so, the attention made him feel heady. Or was that the whiskey? He didn’t know. Why was a simple decision so hard? Bill bit at his lip and pondered, then the lights in the room dimmed and he glanced away at the stage and back to Armond and his brilliant smile. The whiskey swam in his stomach and in his head. Armond’s long fingers reached for him. Anywhere else and he wouldn’t feel safe, couldn’t feel safe. 

Bill drew in a deep breath and made his decision.

Chapter Text

This man wasn’t going to make it easy. Frank reminded himself patience or he’d scare him off. If it happened, it happened; it wouldn’t be the first time. He didn’t catch a fish every time he cast out a line, either. But Frank liked the skittish ones, the ones that came in here needing guidance, patience, attention. They were the ones with the most payoff, not just in tips but in satisfaction. This stranger, seemingly vulnerable, intrigued him. Besides, most of the dancers hadn’t developed the particular balance of being assertive without being aggressive and would likely startle him, assuming they even got close enough through the thick shell. No, this was Frank’s speciality, the ones that required finesse.

This is what Frank loved, trying to find the cracks. Some came to their sexuality later in their life, or weren’t ready to deal with it, who hid it. Sometimes, they were just looking for some validation of that part of them, an acknowledgement that there’s no shame in what they wanted or needed. Some were just introverts who needed a pull, like a flower set out in the sunlight to help it bloom. Encouragement, be on their side, invite that part of them to come to the surface.

He didn’t even know his name yet, but he wanted to establish some kind of connection before he asked. “I don’t have all night,” he prompted, taking a half step back. Take the bait.

The man stood and stepped forward, moving like he’d reach out. Then he pulled back, so fast that he bumped into the table and stumbled. Frank snapped his hand out and grabbed his wrist out of reflex, then paused, holding still as he watched to see what he’d do.

He expected the man to pull away, but he didn’t. Instead, he looked down, then locked eyes with Frank. He blinked, and Frank loosened his grip to give him a chance to pull away. “Do you want me to let go?”

The man provided no resistance, but looked lost. Reluctantly, Frank pulled back his hand, letting his fingers linger for a moment on the other’s skin. He breathed in, enjoying the feeling of warm skin under his fingers before withdrawing. The man shivered, but didn’t reach for Frank’s hand. He reached across his body, though, and touched his wrist where Frank had. He seemed to appreciate the little touches, and that warmed Frank. Something that so many people took for granted, and there was something electrifying about touching someone who reacted so deliciously to it.

“I’ll follow you,” the man murmured.

Oh, so he was in. Just not with the contact, not yet. Frank could work with that. “What’s your name?” he coaxed, his voice low.

The man paused like he thought about lying, then sighed. “Bill.” His voice wavered. His shoulder length brown hair fell into his face, like a curtain that he hid behind. A dark beard shot through with just a little gray.

Frank stepped up to him, and leaned over to whisper, “Follow me, Bill.”

He turned and started away, looking over his shoulder to make sure that the man followed. And follow he did, his shoulders held too high and his head too low. The way he’d swallowed that whiskey, he seemed anxious.

Frank would take it slow, but push the boundaries just a little. Make him feel like he’s overcome something just by being here.

Frank led Bill to a room in the far end of the back, Frank’s preferred private space. He opened the door and gestured for Bill to enter, then picked up a clipboard from a slot outside the door. Bill sat down on the couch, hunching down into it. He looked up at Frank, then away to cast his eyes across the room. Which was a shame, since he had beautiful eyes.

Frank sat on the table across from him, crossing his legs. “No one loves paperwork, so I’m sorry for that.” He handed Bill the clipboard and a pen. “Standard disclaimer, rules, and preferences.”

“Oh.” Bill stared at the clipboard, eyes darting around the paper. “Who the fuck chooses Christian music in here?”

“You’d be amazed.” Frank hadn’t had anyone notice that specific point before, which told him another couple of things about Bill. He possibly didn’t want to mix religion and nudity. But it also suggested that Bill paid attention to different details. Most customers commented on some other aspect of the form. It asked for name, gender identity, pronouns, comfort boundaries, phone number, and any music preferences or non-preferences. It just takes just one time dancing to country music with someone who happens to hate country music to make sure someone fills out the form. Frank couldn’t verify if badly placed country music could kill a hard cock, but Frank supposed that Christian rock wouldn’t do him any favors, either.

“I don’t want to be amazed,” Bill muttered, holding the clipboard close and scratching at it with the pen.

“Then you might be in the wrong place,” Frank noted, getting up to snag a black hat from the wall while he waited, setting it on his head. Sometimes the prop helped give people something to focus on.

Bill dropped the clipboard on the table and it clattered on the surface. The clatter echoed into silence, and Bill folded his hands in his lap. Frank grinned and picked the clipboard, reviewing it. He’d checked the “physical contact okay” checkbox, which surprised Frank since he seemed so hesitant. Maybe he’d continue to be fine letting Frank lead. In turn, he had not checked the full nudity checkbox. He’d ignored most of the music checkboxes except for enthusiastic crossing out most of the choices except for rock, pop, and classical. His name on the form still said Bill, but it looked like Bill had started to write a last name before seeing the instructions that said that last names are optional. Ka. And here Frank thought he was the tease. He did include a phone number.

Frank set the clipboard aside in a slot on the wall, then ran Bill’s card, handing it back. He queued up some songs on the panel on the wall, letting the system pick some random ones off a prebuilt list that Frank had curated. He turned back and walked back to the table, reaching his legs long with every stride, landing on the balls of his feet to make his legs look more graceful.

He sat and spread his legs wide, putting his hands on his knees. “It’ll be seven or eight songs. It’s easier to pace to songs than to time.”

Bill’s eyes flickered over Frank’s body, past his crotch, and he looked away before looking back to Frank’s face. Frank met his gaze, reaching forward to put a hand on Bill’s knee. “If I do anything you don’t like, tell me. And if you do… well, tell me that, too.”

Bill nodded, his hands at his sides. His face glowed with a blush and Frank smiled as the first song started. He stepped onto the table, holding onto the pole in the middle. “If you can’t reach me, you can drop tips on the table. But if you can reach me…” Frank held onto the pole behind his back and lowered himself down, stretching out his leg until his foot rested inches from Bill’s cock.

Staring at Frank’s outstretched leg, he reached for his wallet and pulled out a bill. He drew in a breath and tucked it into Frank’s boot, then pulled his hand back and pushed them into the pockets of his jacket.

“How about we get that jacket off?” Frank murmured, brushing the tip of his boot against the edge of Bill’s jacket.

“It’s fine.” Bill hunched into the coat, and Frank withdrew his leg.

Bill’s eyes followed Frank’s foot, then swept up to his face. Frank could read it all over him. Maybe Bill wanted the protection the jacket brought him, but Frank saw through the armor. Bill was attracted to him… and Bill wasn’t used to that.

And there was the interest Frank was looking for. “Well, tell me if you get too warm.” Frank shifted to his knees on the table, then raised himself to his feet. His ankle didn’t love the transition, but once he got to his feet he found his grove, shifting to dance with his back to Bill. Here he could use the pole, could lower himself down, give Bill a chance to watch without feeling Frank’s eyes on him. He couldn’t do this with all customers, some would use it as a chance to grab his ass which was decidedly off limits, but he didn’t see Bill crossing that line.

He heard Bill’s breath catch and he grinned. Oh, that felt good to hear, and Frank smiled with the validation of it. He looked back over his shoulder and met Bill’s eyes.

“You have beautiful eyes,” Frank said, shifting to face Bill.

“You don’t have to compliment me,” Bill scoffed, pushing his legs together.

“No, I mean it.” Frank stepped to the floor so that he wouldn’t be so far above Bill, able to look at him better. “A lot of people that come here like to talk about themselves.”

“I don’t,” Bill snapped, but his eyes stayed on Frank.

Frank wasn’t deterred. “That’s fair.” Frank stopped talking and put his hand on his chest, sliding it down over his body and down his thigh. Bill leaned forward, just a fraction, but enough that Frank filed it away.

He reached up and started unbuttoning his shirt, rolling his body with the music. This is the part he loved, the part where he could start to feel someone out, where he could open himself up and be as sexy as he needed to be. Confident. After the last couple of years, it always felt good to dance, to evoke something in another person. It filled a need in him that he pushed down, otherwise.

Bill held up another $5, and looked at Frank as he set it down on the table. He could follow directions. Very good. Although Frank suspected he had no idea how much to tip, or when. But he’d learn. Frank unworked another button, pulling his shirt open. It was only the first song, and he didn’t have enough clothing to go that far. That was an upside to coming in with an arranged plan, but these spontaneous dances kept him on his toes, literally and figuratively.  

He danced through two songs, unbuttoning his shirt until it was almost unbuttoned. He loved this part, getting close to removing something. The pounding beat of the second song thrummed through him, and he swung his hips with it. He pulled himself up onto the pole, latching his leg around it, and leaned his upper body back, holding his hat in place with a hand.

He watched Bill as he shifted, pulling himself back upright. Habit made him keep eye contact with Bill until Bill swallowed and glanced away. Frank followed Bill’s lead, keeping a smile on his face but not forcing eye contact when Bill looked away. He watched where Bill looked, primarily his legs. Bill liked legs.  

The second song closed out, and Frank ended it in a dramatic pose holding onto the pole in the center of the table, one leg stretched out behind him. He watched Bill as he did, and Bill stared up at him, eyes wide, before he darted his eyes away. Frank ran his hand over his chest, then dropped to his knees on the table in front of Bill as the third song started. “Too much or too little?” he prompted, running a hand down his hip and side of his leg to draw Bill’s attention to his thigh. He watched Bill follow his hand with his eyes.

Bill licked at his lips and wedged his hands between his knees, looking more nervous than ever. “You don’t have to do anything fancy.”

“Would it help if I talked more?” Frank prompted, taking off the hat and setting it on the table.

Nodding, Bill leaned back to look up at him. “Yeah. I think so.”

“I can talk a lot,” Frank warned, moving his hips in a circle, keeping Bill watching him. “If you have questions, ask, but I have some things I can talk about.” He smiled, quickly sorting through the topics that usually were easiest to pick out. “I’ve been doing this professionally about a year and a half.” He stood and kept dancing as he talked, knowing the moves to make now that they’d found a rhythm. “Before that, I’d only done amateur nights, for fun.” He was used to editing out the personal parts of his life, such as all of the details that led him to it.

“You’re good,” Bill said, settling into his seat. “I thought you’d done it longer.”

“Thanks. I practice.” He winked. He gave that impression on purpose. He’s learned how to read people, what signs indicated interest or discomfort. “I do yoga. Helps with the flexibility.” He demonstrated by moving to the floor and putting his leg on the table, stretching himself out in front of Bill. “I’d thought about it before, but after a point I thought I was too old.” He chuckled. “I don’t think I’m too old anymore.” Not entirely true, but close enough. Frank had another good five years of stripping, and he’d take it if he could get it.

“Do you…” Bill pulled in a big breath. “Do you like it?”

“I love it.” That was honest. “I get to make people smile.” He leaned forward and touched Bill’s shoulder for a moment before moving away. “Mostly.”

Bill’s beard shifted with the slightest smile, and he pulled out a bill and held it out.

“Mmm you’re going to have to work a little harder than that,” Frank admonished, kneeling on the table and pushing his torso towards Bill. The only place to tuck it was Frank’s waistband, and Bill hesitated. Frank reached down and wrapped his fingers around Bill’s wrist, and Bill closed his eyes, letting out a gasp.

So touch starved, too. Oh but Frank knew that feeling, so instead of pushing Bill’s boundaries, he shifted to put his fingers on Bill’s wrist, feeling his pulse. Not easy to do during a dance but Frank had figured out how to take someone’s pulse under gunfire, this was easy in comparison. “Your pulse is high.”

Bill snorted, shaking his head. “You think?”

Frank didn’t let go, enjoying the casual intimacy of the contact. Bill closed his eyes for a moment as Frank caressed the inside of his wrist. Frank could learn a lot about someone by this gesture alone. What he learned from Bill tugged at him like a loose string, demanding to be pulled. He ran his thumb over Bill’s palm, pressing so that Bill’s fingers curled inward.

Bill stared down at their hands. He’d hardly be the first, and he certainly wouldn’t be the last, to not know what to do with physical contact. Frank could imagine a series of events that would have put him in the same situation as Bill. The next song started. Blinding Lights by The Weeknd. A good chance to slow down a little.

“It’s not just making people happy. It’s filling needs.” Frank pulled his hand away and Bill’s movements followed him. Frank darted back in to run a finger along Bill’s palm. “When I dance, I connect to people.”

“It sounds exhausting.” Bill had started to uncurl, his legs relaxing as he leaned back.

Good. “It’s not.” Frank smiled, noticing that Bill relaxed when Frank didn’t overdo it, when he came in close. So Frank transitioned into a smaller, more intimate routine. He didn’t have the option to do this very often, especially not with a first timer. Most of them had expectations, wanted the big stripper experience, but that didn’t feel like Bill. Not this time, anyway.

Frank got down on his knees on the floor in front of Bill. He lightly set his hands on Bill’s legs. Bill swallowed and took the money he’d been holding, and leaned forward to tuck it into Frank’s shorts. Frank drew in a breath of anticipation, leaning forward. Finally, Bill had figured it out. He looked forward to this, to the feel of the sliver of paper sliding against his skin, of the brush of a hand against his skin.

A horrific sound erupted through the room, and Bill jerked back, shoving his hand in his pocket. Frank pulled away in response, trying to give him space to figure out his blaring ringer. Bill’s hand emerged from his pocket, fumbling with the phone. It slipped from his hands, bounced off the couch, then tapped against the low pile pink and gray carpet.

Frank stared down at the old flip phone, laying open on the floor. The screen indicated that the call had picked up.

I’m blinded by the lights.

Maybe Frank could close it before whoever called figured out where Bill was, try to save him some embarrassment, or before another song that had implications came up. It’s the least he could do for Bill, who had been enjoyable if a bit shy company so far.

I can’t sleep until I feel your touch.

Frank reached for the phone, bending forward and extending his hand towards the floor.

And then everything went sideways. 

Chapter Text

Bill reached for his phone, trying to get to it it before Armond. He didn’t want anyone else handling his phone, even if it was just Becca calling. But what if it wasn’t Becca and it was work? What if it’s the lady from the wine shop and his order had come in? No, obviously, the wine shop lady wasn’t calling at this hour.

He hurried to lean down, swiping with his hand to catch the phone. Bill felt an impact against his skull, and stars and splashes erupted in his vision.

Fuck had he just bonked a stripper in the head?

Armond recoiled but beat Bill to the phone, sitting up quickly and flipping the phone closed with a snap. He let out a little laugh, which made Bill’s face flush.

“Are you okay?” Armond asked. Of course he’d check on Bill before Bill could check on him. Bill pushed down his annoyance that the stripper had also grabbed for the phone. 

He felt like he was going to throw up, but he was pretty sure that had less to do with the head bump and more to do with the absolute mortification he felt. “I’m fine,” Bill muttered, not looking at Armond’s face. Oh god I hit him in the head.

Armond held out the phone to Bill and smiled. 

Bill reached out and took the phone, their hands touching for a moment. Bill breathed in sharply and summoned the courage to look at his missed calls. It had been Becca.

He silenced the ringer and dropped the phone on the couch, rolling his head back and closing his eyes. His head throbbed, aching. He reached for his wallet and nearly dropped that on the floor, too. “I’m sorry. Are you hurt?” He shoved $60 at Armond, trying to buy his embarrassment away.

Armond shook his head. “Let’s not do that yet.” He moved next to Bill on the couch. “Just a bruise. I’ve taken much harder hits at work than this.” He chuckled. “Can I take a look?”

“It’s okay, I’ll just go ice it.” Bill had to get out of here, this was too much. He’d have to leave this place and never come back.

Armond’s expression remained earnest, and he lifted his eyebrows a little. “Let me check you out. Then if you want to leave, you can. Is that okay?”

Bill stared at him then nodded.

“Do I have your permission to touch your head?”

“Yeah. Do people really fuss about that?” Bill muttered.

“Consent is sexy,” Armond noted, getting up on his knees next to Bill. His movements changed, more conservative. Bill noticed the change but didn’t know what to think of it yet. Armond parted Bill’s hair, and he felt a sting along his scalp mixed with the electric feeling of someone touching him. He held his breath as some other song he didn’t know started up in the background. He was hyperaware of Armond, his body so close to Bill that he could feel the heat radiating off of him.

“It’s going to bruise,” Armond noted. “How’s your vision? Any blurriness?”

“No.” Bill’s phone buzzed next to him, several times, and he reached for it, flipping it open to see the messages from Becca. “I can read these stupid texts from my sister.”

“Great. Does it hurt when I touch it?”

He pressed just a little harder, and Bill flinched as pain shot through his head again. “Fuck.”

“I’ll file that under yes.” Armond smoothed Bill’s hair down and sat back. “You look fine, but I’d rather keep an eye on you for a few minutes. Free of charge.”

“It’s just a bump.” He didn’t want to be observed, he wanted to get out of there. He stood, starting for the door. As Bill took the first two steps, he felt his head swim. Whiskey, head bump, or sheer horror, he didn’t know.

Armond caught his arm as he swayed on his feet. “My professional opinion is that you sit down.”

“Professional, eh?” Bill huffed and let Armond guide him back to the couch. “They train you in first aid?”

“They do, actually.” Armond sat across from him on the table, holding onto Bill’s hands. He stretched out one long, long leg next to Bill, and Bill swallowed. “But my background is emergency medicine.”

“Oh.” Bill looked down at his wrist. At least one thing about tonight made sense. “That explains the pulse, I guess.”

“Old habits.” He grinned. “Check the texts from your sister. I can call up to someone to let her know you’re here.”

“Oh. Oh yeah that would be great.” He wasn’t sure if that was great, but it was better than having to call Becca himself and admit that he just bonked a stripper on the head.

“You’ve got it.” Armond rose and ducked out of the room.

Bill stared at his phone, catching up on Becca’s messages.

I’m here where are you??

Are you getting a dance? Who is it!

Bill I’m going to call you because I know you hate texts.

I KNEW IT you got a dance!

GO GET EM

Jesus. This was ridiculous.

Armond came back into the room, closing the door. He sat next to Bill on the couch, stretching out his legs and resting them on the table. “Tess says your sister is at the bar.”

Bill sighed. Well, this would be embarrassing. “Will you be able to work with a bruise?”

“I’ll be fine.” Armond smiled and picked up the abandoned hat. “I can work something out, it’s not a big deal.”

“So this happens sometimes?” He’d said he’d been injured at work before, hadn’t he?

“Well, not here. When I was a paramedic, I took a lot of injuries.” He sat cross-legged on the other end of the couch, looking at Bill. “That may not be very reassuring.”

“It’s fine.” It wasn’t reassuring, but Armond’s completely unfazed demeanor was. His phone buzzed in his hand and he looked at the text.

Is it Almond???

What the fuck?

Another text followed it. ARMOND fucking autocorrect.

Bill blinked and looked back to Armond’s smile, and suddenly nothing made sense. He started laughing. Almond. What was he going to do?

Almond looked confused. “What’d she say?”

“I can’t.” Bill put the phone down.

“Now you’re definitely the tease.”

“It’s stupid. Her phone thinks your name is Almond.” A laugh bubbled up out of Bill, and he forced it down. Laughs did not just bubble up, this was nerves and whisky and bashing skulls with a perfectly nice man named Almond Armond.  “I can’t say it. I’m sorry.” Another laugh. “Almond.” He drew in a breath through a sputter. “Is there something else I can call you?”

“Frank,” the man said quickly, then paused, biting at his lip.

A thrill hummed through Bill when he realized that finally he’d caught the other man off guard. He’d had that answer awfully quick. “Is it really your name, or is like… Beef Franks? Some kind of… oh god.” He dropped the phone and covered his face with his hands. This wasn’t going anywhere good.

“Something like that.” The man now known as Frank set a hand on his leg. “Listen. When you’re out there, I need to you to call me Armond, or that old stripper guy, or anything else. Can you do that for me?” His smile returned.

“You’re not old.” Bill snorted. “Unless you’re also calling me old.”

“Fair point.” He squeezed Bill’s knee and pulled back. “I don’t think you’re old at all.”

Becca texted again and Bill looked down at his phone. ALMOND. Go get those nuts.

He put his thumb on the power button and held it until the phone turned off. He’d just learned something else about Frank, then. His name probably was Frank, if he didn’t want Bill to spread it around. That, or he didn’t want to mess up his branding.

“We could just both agree to pretend this didn’t just happen,” Frank noted.

Bill let out a breath of relief. “Yes.”

Frank picked up the cash and handed it back to Bill, closing his hands around it. “I won’t take tips for getting hit in the head. But I’ll take tips if you like the service.”

Bill pulled out a $20 and stared at it, then back at Frank. Frank. That fit. It felt right. “Is it okay if I call you Frank here?”

“You can call me whatever you want.” Frank flashed a smile and stood. “Especially if you can tuck that in somewhere.” He unbuttoned the last two buttons on his shirt and set it aside. “Shirt doesn’t count. But no hurry.” He stood and moved away from Bill, on the floor. “I’m not getting back on the table. Safety protocol, no standing on things after hitting your head.”

“Have I messed up your whole night?” Now Bill fretted.

“That’s sweet, but I’m fine.” He rolled his hips into the dance, and Bill sat back to watch, following the lines of his body. He was in great shape, but not in an intimidating way. In the way that Bill appreciated. 

He felt like a kid with his parents’ cash, waiting for a chance to get forbidden cotton candy at the county fair.

White Room by Cream started, and Bill relaxed. This was his kind of music, something he could anticipate. A cadence he recognized.

I’ll wait in this place, where the sun never shines  

Frank’s smile felt more real now. If nothing else, he guessed a mortifying head bashing was great to break the ice. Shit like this is why Bill didn’t date, there’s too much potential for disaster. He felt flushed, and he took Frank’s suggestion to remove his jacket, setting it aside. He could put the cash in Frank’s boot, but that would mean leaning dangerously close to his dick, and he’d already injured Frank once. He didn’t need to add “dick bonk” to his list of strip club crimes.

Frank danced back towards him, jutting out a hip towards Frank. Bill drew a breath and tucked the $20 into Frank’s waistband, his fingers brushing against Frank’s skin.

As I walked out, felt my own need just beginning

He pulled back, looking up at Frank.

“You’re so good,” Frank murmured, hooking his hands into his waistband and edging it down an inch. Bill’s breaths felt ragged and debated closing his eyes. He wasn’t sure he was ready for that.  

But Frank didn’t move any further, instead he tucked his fingers into the front of his shorts, close to touching himself. The implication was clear. Bill hitched a breath, licking his lips.

I'll sleep in this place with the lonely crowd

Lie in the dark where the shadows run from themselves

The song ended and another started, and Bill leaned back, closing his eyes.

He could watch if Frank wasn’t looking at him with those blue eyes, but he was, and Bill pushed his legs together against the ache in his groin. No, no that was enough. Bill blinked, staring up at the ceiling as he took a deep breath. The feeling was intense and he wasn’t comfortable with it in front of another person. “I think I’m done.” He heard how that came out and shook his head, and then he worried if he’d offend Frank. “I want to. But…” Frank was a stripper for shit’s sake, he had to know what Bill was trying to say.

Frank tuned off the music, and pulled up the room’s one chair, sitting across from Bill. “I know,” he said, gentle. “Keep it low key?”

Bill nodded. “Yeah,” he choked. He looked down at Frank’s hand. The pressure in him felt unbearable, and he reached for his coat to cover his lap. This was exactly what he was worried about, why he didn’t want to do this. Anything could push him right over the edge, and that’s what he didn’t want. Not here. Maybe later, at home.

“It’s okay,” Frank soothed. “You know you’re safe here.”

Why was he so fucking nice? Bill was a wreck. Nowhere but Bill’s home felt safe, so he’d have to let himself think of a stripper with nice eyes, a pretty smile, and legs for days when he was in the dark safety of his bed at night. “How’s the bruise?” That would help. He could beat down his body’s reaction with mortification. His parents would be proud.

“It’s not bad. You can check, if you want.” Frank leaned forward, indicating the spot on his head.

Bill peered at it, but the dim lighting made it hard to make out details. “I can’t see anything.”

“You can put your hand there and feel it.”

Bill lifted his hand, shaky, and set it on the spot that Frank showed him. Bill winced. A pronounced bump had formed and he ran his fingers along the edge of it, forgetting the tension in the room for a moment as he did. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. God, this is why he didn’t do these things.

“Hey, no sorry.” Frank looked up at him through his eyelashes, Bill’s hand still on his head, and Bill froze, blinking.  

He pulled his hand back, hiding his hands under his coat. He felt like curling back up into a ball. “Listen. I’ll get if you don’t want to see me next time.”

“Bill.” Frank searched his face, his smile absolutely gorgeous. He crossed one leg over the other, leaning back in his chair. “I’d love to see you again.”

“Is that real or the act?” Bill couldn’t tell which it was, he’d never been good at reading people. Much less men who sat casually without a shirt across from him.

Frank held his hands up. “You already know I’m bad at lying. Besides, I didn’t get to even finish my routine.”

Your routine would have finished me. “Oh. Well. I guess I have to come back then.”

Frank’s laugh felt light, warm. “You know where to find me.”

Bill looked over at Frank’s shirt, picking it up. He had a thought as he did, and he held it up between them so that Frank couldn’t see what he was doing. He slid the $40 from earlier into his pocket and handed it back to Frank.

“I saw that.” Frank pulled on the shirt, leaving it unbuttoned. “And thank you.”

“Yeah. You’re welcome.” Bill slipped his coat back on. He know he’d been in here only a half hour, but it seemed like so much longer, and Becca probably wondered where he was. “I’ll leave my phone in the car next time.”

Frank reached for the hat and put it back on his head with a flourish, then stood. He held out a hand to Bill, and Bill reached up and shook his hand. “It’s been a pleasure, Bill. Really.”

“And you’re a shit liar.” Bill got to his feet as Frank stepped back.

“Guilty. So you know I mean it.” Frank buttoned up the lower half of his buttons. He shifted into a pose, one that highlighted his legs and shoulders. “Look okay?”

Fuck. “Yeah. You’re good.”

“Great.” He lifted the hat off his head and gestured with it. “I mean it, Bill. Come see me again.”

“I’ll… try.” Bill winced then stood there, awkward. “Thanks. For making this good.”

“You’re welcome.” Frank tugged at his shirt, flashing him a grin. “Wait until the next time. We’ll see what other of my secrets you get to keep.”

Oh. Oh now that was a lot to think about. “Looking forward to it,” he managed, somehow.

Frank winked and opened the door for him. “I’ll circle around to the other side, I’m going to stop in the back. Then we don’t go out together.”

Bill nodded, his mouth dry. “I should go.” He went through the door and headed down the hallway, resisting the urge to look back behind him. How much more wrong could that have gone?

Now that he was out of the room and moving, the discomfort set in. What if his bruise was obvious? He poked his head out and saw Becca still at the bar, and he edged along the wall to the bathroom.

He turned the corner and stopped dead in his tracks, feeling like his jaw would drop. A huge mural crossed the entire large room, covered the ceiling, walls, and around the stall doors. His jaw almost dropped. The mural included people in various positions, sensual but not sexual, lush gardens, a moody den. He could tell it took several people to complete it all, but someone had designed this whole thing at some point. A large round sink sat in the middle of the room, and the floor to ceiling stalls against the walls. One of those bathrooms where everyone used the same bathroom but had their own private stalls. A little strange, but he kind of liked it. Plus, only one gorgeous mural to paint. 

The mirrors on the walls reflected the mural back, making it look even larger. A woman stood at the nearest mirrors, adjusting her hair, so Bill walked to a different mirror, stopping in front of it. His face was still red. He parted his hair to look at the bruise. It stung, but his hair covered most of it. He’d have a bruise at work tomorrow, but he could make a good enough excuse. He sighed. Every time he showered, brushed his hair, or put on a hat, he’d remind of himself of the thunk of hitting Frank’s head, for the next few days.

Could be worse. He headed out of the bathroom and headed to the bar, coming up next to Becca. “Finding trouble?”

“It’s probably finding me.” Becca smiled, holding up her drink. She wore a sequined tank top in turquoise, over a black long sleeved shirt. “So?”

Bill flagged down Tess. She walked back down the bar towards them. “Hey Bill, what can I get you?”

He hated that he was about to say this. Ordering drinks here was terrible. “Just uh… Coke and Dagger,” he muttered.

“Somehow, I understood that.” Tess started mixing the drink.

Becca sipped at her drink. “You can’t leave me hanging.”

“I can do whatever I want.” Bill tapped his fingers on the bar. “Can you hang on? You can ask me all the questions you want, and I can ignore them, after we sit down.”

“Bill, you’re no fun.” Becca ran her finger over the condensation on her glass. She leaned in towards him. “But your face is red.”

“It’s the lighting,” he grumbled.

Tess passed drink across the bar. “I put it on your tab. Also, it’s not the lighting.”

That didn’t help any, and Bill picked up the glass and headed for the corner table again. Becca followed as he worked his way over to the table. He sat down in the same spot as before, flipping the coaster back to red.

“How do you even see anything all the way back here?” Becca asked, sitting down on the other side of the corner bench.

“I see enough.” Bill sipped at his Coke. “You can go closer if you want.”

“Nah. I’ll be good, I’ve enjoyed plenty while at the bar.” She toyed with the straw of her drink. “I’m not going to ask you a bunch of questions, if that’s what you’re worried about. But did you have a good time?”

That question, at least, was easy. “Yeah.”

“Then I’m happy.” Becca’s smiled slipped a little as she looked at him. “When did you bump your head?”

Bill had to come up with something, but nothing came to him. “Earlier.” His face reddened.

“Fine. Keep your secrets.” She scanned the room and her face lit up. Bill knew she must have spotted Frank. “Oh I love the hat!”

Bill sunk down and didn’t follow her gaze. He was worried his expression would give away too much. He loved and trusted Becca, but these were things he had to process on his own. His therapist probably would have disagreed. “Becca,” he warned. “I can’t even say his name with a straight face now.”

“You didn’t have a straight face before,” she shot back.

He rolled his eyes. “The whole text thing made it awkward. Why is your smartphone so stupid? Why did you call?”

“Because you always leave it in the car! I was only going to leave a voice mail.” Becca chuckled. “Almond. Obvious nut joke aside, I’m going to call him Almond Joy.”

First snacks, now full on snack foods. “Why do you refer to people as snacks?”

She didn’t answer except to snicker. “So what did you think?”

What he thought is that he’d like to crawl into a nice hole and cover it up, leaving him to suffer his embarrassment alone. “He’s… nice.”

“Nice?” Becca sputtered. “With those legs, and all you can say is nice?”

“What do you want me to say, Becca?” He hunkered down in his seat. “He’s nice to look at. Are you happy now?”

“I am, actually.” She tapped at the services menu. “They’re reasonably priced here. I wonder if they could use some help with advertising?”

“Becca, you don’t need another job. You barely have time for the one you have.”

She sighed. “Yeah. I know. Just that this would be a lot more fun than the shitshow that’s my day job.” She leaned back, stretching. “That meeting was a complete waste of time.”

Bill felt that in his soul. “Most meetings could have been an email.” Especially tomorrow since he’d have a bruise on his head. He decided that he might just work from home and tell everyone his webcam wasn’t working, since he already had the afternoon off to go with Becca to the doctor for test results. 

He glanced around the room and saw Frank near the bar. Frank smiled at him and tipped his hat.

Bill felt his cheeks flush all over again. Becca was right, nice was an understatement. But Bill didn’t quite have the words for how it felt to spend a half hour in a room with someone, go through a whole cycle of being self conscious, and come out on the other side feeling pretty satisfied, all things considered.

“Saw that,” Becca said, and Bill could practically hear her smirk.

Bill groaned. This could turn into a long night, but at least he’d be able to go home later with some assurance that someone had enjoyed his company, even if Bill had been paying for the privilege. He supposed that was at least mutually beneficial. He’d take it.

He thought about telling Becca his name, but decided that was a secret he’d keep all for himself. Frank had… seen him. In a way that no one else ever had. Or maybe in a way that Bill had never let anyone see him. He wanted to hold onto that as something for himself, something of Frank that he got to see that others didn’t. Bill wondered if he should be worried that he’d let anyone see past his carefully built defenses, but Frank made him feel safe. Of course, he finally felt that way alone with anyone, and it was a stripper who was paid to make him feel that way. He sighed. Maybe it didn’t invalidate the feeling, though. He had a whole suitcase of thoughts to unpack. 

“Almond Joy,” Becca whispered, chuckling. “Also, Blinding Lights, great song choice.”

Leave it to Becca to pick up a song from seconds. He resisted the urge to just rest his head on his arms on the table to hide his face. Definitely a long night, but… maybe a halfway good night, minor injury aside. 

Chapter Text

Frank sat at the bar, glancing around for someone he could talk to. He could go back to working on the stage, but he wanted to cover the bruise a bit better before he did. He didn’t have theatre makeup on hand, but he thought he could perhaps borrow some from Jack. But Jack was in the middle of a dance, and so Frank would wait.

A man slid into the seat next to him, smiling. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Frank could have a drink or two per shift if a customer bought one for him, as long as he didn’t end up drunk. Some people just liked to have a drink with an attractive man, and Frank wouldn’t complain. He never had more than a couple per shift, though, not wanting to backslide into old, bad habits. Tess knew it, and she’d find ways to mix lighter drinks for him. Another thing he loved about her.

“Depends.” Frank crossed one leg over the other and leaned back. “What are you drinking?”

“Whatever you want to drink.” The man smiled, and Frank wasn’t sure if he’d seen him here or not.

Getting a drink came with a whole other set of considerations, the least of which was being careful not to over indulge. Frank also had to keep an eye on his drink at all times, but he had Tess to help with that. It had happened a couple of times, but someone always caught it. His stepbrother said that someone dropped something in his drink once and he drank it. Thankfully, it happened to be a night his girlfriend was there and she got him home. Often, the bartender made up some story about the glass being dirty and removed it.

“Tess, you pick,” he said, a signal between them to pick something that would hide that she poured lighter in Frank’s drink. It gave the illusion that he was drinking more than he actually was, which could be advantageous. “You know what I like.”

“Two Suffering Bastards coming up.” She winked, and reached down into the fridge to get two bottles of ginger beer. Some gin, some bourbon, and easy to hide the lack of alcohol in Frank’s version.

“I haven’t seen you here,” Frank commented, keeping the man’s eyes on him as Tess poured the drinks just out of sight.

“I’m new.” The man smiled, and Frank supposed he didn’t mind, so long as he didn’t ask for much. The hat pressed uncomfortably on the bruise on his head, but he’d worked with worse.

“Welcome to The Bou-Peek, then,” Frank said, as Tess set the drinks down on the bar. Frank lifted his to toast.

The man nodded, picking up his drink and clinking it against Frank’s. Frank took a sip, the sharp tang of ginger hitting his throat. He shifted his stance to stretch his legs out. He reached up and fingered the top button on his shirt. The man slid a $10 across the the bar to him, and Frank let it sit for a moment, keeping his focus on the man.

“Worked here long?”

The usual casual conversation. At least that didn’t demand much. “Long enough.” Frank reached out and took the $10, tucking it into his waistband. He made the motions slow, slid his hand down his torso as he did.

“What time do you get off of work?” the man asked. “Want to come over to my place?”

Frank paused at that. He could do it. Maybe it wouldn’t even be so bad. He took another drink and looked the man over. Jeans, tshirt, jacket. Casual, didn’t need to overdo it showing off. Those were always the best ones.

“Armond!” Tess said, tapping him on the arm. “Are you watching the time? Your 9:45 is waiting!”

If it had been any other dancer having this conversation, Tess would have let them field it. But Tess’s statement was the reminder that Frank needed, that’d gone down this line of reasoning before, and never with good results. No, he should take the out that Tess just gave. Sleeping with customers always went bad. He’d never do that again.

“Oh!” Frank took a generous drink off his glass and set it down. “Would be easier if I could wear a watch in here,” he said, winking and grinning. “Thanks for the drink!” He ducked out quickly, heading to the back. He slowed when he spotted Bill the corner, sitting with who he presumed was Bill’s sister. Bill caught his eye, and Frank held up his hand, a small wave, not enough to draw attention. And then he’d go.

Bill didn’t quite smile, but he nodded, and Frank was pleased that he’d gotten a reaction out of him at all.

Back in the dressing room, he took off the hat and looked at the bruise in the mirror at his station. It wasn’t so bad, he supposed. He’d need to cover it.

He watched Jack approach from behind him. “Frank, you know better than to not keep concealer around,” they grumbled, setting down a box in front of him with a pointed look.

“Yeah, I know. I know.” Frank waved a hand. “It’s one thing I’m bad at. Makeup.”

“I’ll walk you through it.”

“Deal.” Frank grinned. He rarely found himself having to use makeup, at least not beyond the basics. He knew how to enhance his own features but he hadn’t gotten good at anything with significant coverage. He always had friends to help. For an artist, he was terrible at painting himself. 

He let Jack walk him through the steps, although they occasionally tsked at him and took over. “How did you get this?”

“Zigged when I should have zagged.” Frank winced as he applied the final layer to it. He opted to not explain everything, since everything said in a dressing room was rumor fodder as soon as it was spoken. He didn’t need that, and certain Bill didn’t need that if he ever came back and got a dance from another dancer.

Jack stepped back. “That should do.”

Frank looked in the mirror. The bump was there if he looked hard, but the lights in the club would hide it. “Thanks. I owe you.”

“I take payment in beer. Something I can take home. No IPAs, my wife hates them.” They chuckled. “She says they’re like pumpkin spice for white guys.”

“She’s not wrong.” Frank would drink an IPA in a pinch, but he’d also drink a pumpkin spice latte. He liked to think of himself as a beverage optimist.

“For the record, IPAs are what we export to colonizers. It’s the colonizer beer,” Raj piped up, pulling on a clean shirt.

“And I’m never repeating that outside of this room,” Frank declared, standing. It had been about 15 minutes, long enough to pretend he’d done a dance. “And now it’s time to go out and finish the shift.”

“Good luck!” Jack gave him a thumbs up and packed up the makeup, and Frank headed back out to the club.

Of course, Tess had cost him some tips from the potential customer, but on the flip side, she’d saved him from himself. He noticed the man had found his way to Fernando, one of the most built strippers there. Mexican, charming, and almost forty. He’d been doing this for at least fifteen years, and he’d be able to deflect advances if he wanted. Frank felt rather flattered that Fernando was the next choice up, given that he was stunning.

Now that’s an idea. Except that sex with a coworker had gotten him nowhere good. At this rate, his best bet was to just jack off in the fucking shower. Except that he wasn’t spending the night at his own place. Not like Tess and Joel gave a shit what he did in the shower, so long as he locked the door.

He starting working the crowd, dancing at tables, low commitment but easy. He watched Bill and his sister get up, and he moved in their direction.

Bill’s sister stuck out a hand. “Hi, I’m Becca.” She was cute, a dark brown bob of hair with a chunk of blue. She looked pale, perhaps recovering from something, if Frank had to guess.

“An absolute pleasure to meet you.” Frank took her hand, holding it in both of his.

Becca laughed, glancing over at Bill. “Oh, he’s good.”

“Becca,” Bill hissed, his face red and his body tense.

“I’ll see you outside!” Becca slid her hand from Frank’s and headed out, waving to Tess on the way.

“She’s a lot,” Bill muttered, looking down. “So, uh, see you later?”

“I hope so.” Frank regarded him for a moment, studying his face. Awkward, tense. “How’s your head?”

“Oh.” Bill started to reach for it then stopped, dropping his hand at his side. “It’s okay.” He peered at Frank’s head. “I can’t even see yours.”

“Makeup.” Frank grinned. He leaned in, not close enough to touch but close enough that only Bill would hear. “See you later, Bill,” he rumbled.

He swore that Bill shivered; he hoped that Bill shivered.

“Sure, Frank,” Bill said, so quiet that no one would hear him, except for Frank.

What a shit! Frank thought, letting his own smile linger as Bill nodded and started for the door. He glanced in Frank’s direction briefly before he left the building. Customers liking him was nothing new. But customers who clearly had come in not expecting to be friendly with a stripper, and that left with a lingering glance…

The rest of his shift felt boring in comparison but passed quickly enough that he found himself at the bar after closing time. He helped collect glasses, bringing them over to the bar.

“You don’t have to do that!” Tess smacked him across the ass with a towel. “It’s not your job.”

“The sooner you go home, the sooner I can go crack open a beer!” Frank crowed, dodging the next attempt on his backside while juggling glasses in his hands. He didn’t want to get into the part where he knew the club would be struggling. That was Dani’s message to deliver. He wanted to work as hard as he could while he was here, and take the load off of others. 

“Why are you wearing makeup? You never wear it.” Tess picked up several glasses herself and shuffled them to the bar.

Frank didn’t want to explain but she’d notice tomorrow as soon as he showed up for breakfast at her house. “I bumped my head.”

“On what?”

“A customer.”

Tess narrowed her eyes, then snickered. “New guy. Bill. Hates being called Will and William.”

“Sounds on brand.”

“But how do you hit your head on Bill?”

“You two trouble back here?” Joel called. “Front’s locked up.”

“Tess is interrogating me about how I hit my head on a customer.” Frank set down the last load of glasses on the bar while Joel started wiping down tables. “He dropped his phone. I was trying to get it. So was he.”

“Jesus, Frank. That’s a new one.”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s my fault, shouldn’t have gone for the phone.” Etc, etc. “But it was kind of fun. I got to be a person for a minute.” He thought about the look on Bill’s face. “It made me laugh.”

“That’s something,” Tess said. Between the three of them, they tidied up, loaded the dishwasher, and then headed out to the back to climb into Joel’s SUV.

Frank buckled his seatbelt in the backseat, and looked at Tess, knowing that she’d bring up the man at the bar if he didn’t. “Tess-“

“Oh, no, don’t Tess me,” she warned. “I did you a favor.”

Frank raised his hands, looking from the lights outside as Joel pulled onto the road and headed towards their home. “I know.”

“Frank, I’ve known you for years. I saw the look. You were thinking about it.”

“I mean, maybe a little.” He flinched. “But that last time was a mess.” Frank moved his foot in a circle to stretch his ankle. The inside of the car lit and dimmed as they passed streetlights. At two in the morning, there was hardly anyone out, and the drive back would be fast.

“And the two times before that,” Tess added. She held up a finger. “The one with the big dick at the hotel that kicked you out promptly the next morning.” She added a second finger. “The sweet, hot one that was terrible in bed but made you breakfast, and it turned out there was no chemistry between you.” Third finger. “And refused to use a condom guy.”

“I hated that guy,” Joel muttered. “Never so happy to kick someone out of the club.”

Frank covered his face with his hands. “This was easier when you were a voice on the radio,” he muttered, but chuckled anyway.

“And now you can’t pay me enough to go back to dispatch, so you’re stuck with me,” Tess declared.

“Honestly, you two taking up jobs in a strip club is the best thing that could have happened,” Joel added.

“And then you got sucked in, too. At least until contracting picks back up,” Tess finished.

“So now you’re both stuck with me.” Frank pulled his hands away from his face. “All that aside, it’s still better than the last few years.” Tess and Frank had just started to get to know each other back in 2019. They had become friends when he was a paramedic and she worked in dispatch. The next few years had been hard on them both, both of them finding themselves up late too many nights, usually with him on Tess’s couch avoiding his crumbling marriage.

“That’s the truth.” Tess glanced back at him and smiled in the dim light.

Back at Joel and Tess’s, Frank followed them into the house quietly, not wanting to wake Sarah or Ellie. He glanced at the family portrait that he’d painted of the four of them, in the entry. It made him smile, one of his favorite works.

“Think the girls will have time to hang out tomorrow?” he asked.

“They have the day off,” Joel noted. He leaned over and kissed Tess on the cheek. “You two have fun, I’m gonna get some sleep.” He headed up the stairs, and Frank followed Tess to the kitchen.

“And they’ll love to see you.” Tess opened the fridge and pulled out two beers, handing one to Frank.

He read the can, a tangerine wheat ale. Perfect after a long night at work. He cracked it open and took a sip, and he and Tess headed downstairs to the den. It had the farthest distance between them and the rest of the house, and they’d be able to stay up and talk without worrying about anyone else. It was also adjacent to their guest room. Frank dropped down onto the couch and extended the recliner, reveling in the feeling of not being on his feet.

“So, I won’t fuck customers.” Frank took a drink off his beer and set it down on a coaster on a table next to the couch. “What about coworkers?”

“Do not.” She shook her head.

“Yeah. I know.” Frank crossed his legs and let his head fall back. “But it’s not like I have a marriage left to wreck. Which reminds me. Last week, Dad told me the first year is the worst. I don’t feel any better. When does it get better?”

“When it’s time.” Tess tucked her legs up on the couch, holding her beer in her hand. “I didn’t love divorce, either, but it’s been years. Gets better.

“So maybe years from now I can sit here and look at someone across the couch and tell them it’s been years.”

“Basically.” Tess set the beer down. “I’ll be right back.” She left the room and Frank sipped at his beer, looking around the room. The den had a number of Frank’s paintings, and a few of Ellie’s. She’d taken to art lessons. Sarah less so, but she loved to add color to things, she had an amazing eye for it.

When Joel and Tess met, Joel had Sarah, but not long after, Ellie came into their lives and Joel adopted her. It had taken Tess time to hit her stride with the girls, but now they all lived together as a family. Frank used to draw pictures for them to color. They were starting to get old for it, but he smiled, remembering the fun they used to have. Now they were creators in their own right. Ellie enjoyed painting, but Sarah loved holding things in her hands. She currently was into crochet and claimed to be working on a surprise for Frank. At 16, they were now old enough to drive, although Ellie was more inclined than Sarah.

Tess came back with a package and set it on the couch between them. Makeup wipes. Frank set down his drink and pulled out a wipe, then did his best to clean his face. He winced when he passed over the bruise.

“I hope the tips were good,” Tess noted.

“Decent.” Frank wadded up the used wipe and set it on the package. “Company wasn’t bad, either. He’s shy, hard to read. But he didn’t pull anything, which I’ll certainly take. He was… different.” Frank wasn’t sure if he should tell Tess the next part, but he had to tell someone, and he wasn’t about to call his former stripper stepbrother and tell him this, because he’d give Frank more shit than Tess would. “I accidentally gave him my name.”

“How do you accidentally do that?”

“I don’t know!” It sounded so stupid now that he was about to say it. “His sister texted him, her autocorrect changed Armond to Almond. And he couldn’t stop laughing. I felt bad!” Frank could feel himself blushing. “He just wasn’t able to say Armond after that. I gave him the first name that came into my head because had this… look.”

“What look, Frank?”

“The look of a man whose sister just started making nut jokes in his texts?” Frank took a swig of his beer.

“So you hit your head, gave a customer your name, and you’re sleeping here because you’re sad about your divorce?”

“Ugh. Yeah that sums it up. I guess I wasn’t expecting year one to just be magically over, but…” He patted his pocket where his phone was. “I did change his name in my phone.” He couldn’t even bear to say Salim’s name out loud. “I removed Brightman.”

“Frank.” Her voice dropped with disapproval. “You were supposed to delete it.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Do you need me to do it for you?”

“No, I have to just do it. For me.”

Tess pressed her lips together and stretched out a leg, putting her foot in Frank’s lap. “Frank, you’re kind of a hot mess.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.” He put a hand on her ankle. They’d had a lot of nights like this, even during the worst of things. The hardest times had been when he’d felt like he just needed to get out and talk to someone that understand the stress of the job he did. It would have been better if he’d just left it at bitching with Tess. “So no customers, no coworkers.”

“You’re better than all of that, Frank.” She nudged him with a foot. “Jorge was hot but that was a bad move. Although I get it.” She tucked her hair over her ear. “It’s hard to find anyone that understood what we were going through.”

Sometimes it felt like a fever dream. The burnout, the constant pressure, the overload on the emergency medical frameworks. There had been nights where he and Tess had gone back and forth trying to redirect his ambulance to a hospital that had openings, that wasn’t overloaded and crowded. The growing frustration in their voices, not with each other but with the situation. Jorge had been a side effect of it all, when Salim hadn’t understood the toll it took. Salim had told him not to worry about it, to leave it at work. But the media, his entire life, was a constant reminder of what he went through every time he went out on a shift. There was no leaving that at work.

“Tess, I’m glad we’re friends.”

She smiled. “Me, too.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Frank rubbing Tess’s foot. His mind drifted through the evening, thinking about the dance with Bill. He wasn’t sure what it was that made him think about it, but Bill stuck in his mind. Maybe just because it was so awkward. Maybe because Bill seemed to appreciate him more when he was being himself instead of Frank pretending to be whatever persona he had to put on. A lot of people tried to get to know him, but Bill had been the first to know his name, or to find out more than Frank’s curated image. He sometimes told customers that he paints, but he didn’t talk about his days as a paramedic. There was a reason why there were firefighter strippers and not paramedic strippers; EMTs and paramedics fell into that weird spot that wasn’t the uniformed authority of police or the rugged hero image of firefighters.

“Think that guy tonight will come back?” Frank asked.

“What, so you can hit your head on him again?”

“No!” Frank patted her shin. “I don’t know. I just thought that he was a nice change from the usual.”

“I thought we just covered don’t fuck customers.”

“Not like that. He’d probably bolt, Tess. He was just sort of more relaxing to talk to.”

“Yeah, you used to say that about Kevin, too.”

“Kevin is relaxing to listen to, not talk to. I know so much about Kevin. Probably too much.” He glanced around the room, various bits of art by the kids hanging up on the walls, while he tried to put his finger on what he was trying to say. “This guy didn’t talk much. I wonder what makes him tick.” He wanted to find out more about him, which wasn’t something Frank normally felt with a customer. They usually told him a lot, but Bill hadn’t. Bill held those things close to him, things that weren’t any of Frank’s business, but that he felt an intense curiosity about. What made someone that shy go to a strip club? Maybe it just ate at Frank that he couldn’t figure Bill out as quickly as he typically could. It felt like an itch that couldn’t be scratched. 

“You should just ask his sister, she’s got plenty to say.”

“Did she say anything?”

“She said a lot, but most of it was about her own situation. Which I’m not telling you, because bartender’s creed. What happens at the bar stays at the bar.”

The same went for what was said in private rooms, and for all that Frank and Tess shared a lot of general things, there were some things they never shared with each other for personal reasons.

“I get it.” Frank yawned, looking at his watch. “Oh shit it’s late.”

Tess withdrew her leg as she tried to cover her yawn with a hand. “I’m going to go crawl in bed.”

Frank felt a pang for missing sleeping next to someone else. He finished his beer, then got up to take it to the recycle bin. They hugged goodnight and Frank headed back down to the guest room. He took a shower, and was too tired to follow up on his earlier thought. No, he’d do the bare minimum of bathing to not be That Guy that didn’t shower and slept in a guest bed. He pulled on a shirt and sweatpants, and was asleep as soon as he climbed back in bed.

Pounding footsteps greeted him in the morning, followed by someone beating on the door to the guest room.

“Frank!” Ellie shouted from the other side of the door. “Sarah made waffles!”

Frank sat up in bed. He really shouldn’t be eating waffles, but the lump on his head ached. He deserved waffles. “I’ll be out in a minute!”

“I’m gonna eat yours in three minutes!”

He went to the bathroom, then went back out into the den, where Ellie still waited, not following up on her waffle threat. She did, however, set her phone down and jumped to her feet. “Waffles!” She hugged him. “Nice of you to stop being lazy and come the fuck over.”

Frank chuckled and followed her back up the stairs. In the kitchen, Sarah opened the waffle iron and loosened up a perfectly cooked golden brown waffle. “I thought you’d never wake up. You’re worse than Dad.”

“It’s because I work harder than your dad.”

“I heard that!” Joel called out from the living room, as Sarah set the waffle down at the table.

Frank sat down and pulled it towards him, grinning. “You didn’t have to feed me!”

“We don’t see you that often lately,” Sarah pointed out. “You’re practically our other uncle.”

Ellie pushed a bottle of real maple syrup towards him. Only the good stuff in the Miller and Servopoulos household.

“Whoa! Killer bruise!” Ellie exclaimed. “What the fuck happened?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re older.” He didn’t even notice her swearing most of the time anymore. He spread butter on the waffle.

“I can drive. I’m old enough to hear shit.” She sat down and punched his shoulder. “Ass.”

Sarah started giggling, pouring waffle batter back into the waffle iron.

Frank poured some syrup on the waffle and picked up his fork, taking a bite. A perfectly crisp and balanced waffle, and dark maple syrup, his favorite. Swallowing, he beamed at Sarah. “I guess I’ll have to come by more often.” 

She drifted by and put an arm around Frank’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you.”

He hugged Sarah from the side. “Good to see you, too. Both of you.”

Ellie held her fork like a maniac waiting for a waffle, as Tess came into the kitchen. “Trouble again?”

“Always!” Sarah chirped.

He’d missed this, and the kids were growing up so fast. No wonder Joel had some gray hairs himself. He considered himself lucky to have two families. It made it easier to feel less lonely, with this kind of energy around him.

“Eat faster,” Ellie warned, brandishing a fork at him.

Frank wrapped his arm protectively around his plate and growled at her, which prompted her to growl back.

“No feral in the kitchen!” Tess pulled a carton of orange juice out of the fridge. 

Every Friday should be just like this. Feral chaos. 

Chapter Text

Bill stood over the pan of scrambled eggs, scraping along the bottom of the cast iron skillet with a spatula. He hadn’t gotten enough sleep and he could feel it; his body felt run down and his mind dragged. He’d come home the night before and gone through his usual routine – checking on the monitoring, listening to some music, and heading to bed.

Not that the monitoring did any good, nothing ever really happened. He was always a bit paranoid about anyone hanging around the house, probably because he kept a lot of things down in his bunker that he never wanted anyone to find. Nothing crazy, by Bill’s standards, but Bill liked to think of himself as a survivalist. He’d worked hard to not build too much dependency on technology, because who knows what would happen? In turn, he was extremely private about his property, the food he grew, and his chickens.

He liked his analog systems, although he admitted he’d been tempted to augment his system with a remote monitoring capability. He’d have to custom wire a lot of it, and get one of those stupid smartphones that couldn’t figure out words. The only thing he found on the day’s footage was that the realtor came by to take the sign down next door. Great. Now he’d be back to having neighbors. Hopefully they’d be the sort to keep to themselves. 

The smell of garlic, onions, and peppers wafted through the kitchen. He found comfort in this routine, of the way that cooking made him feel grounded, centered. Sausage and egg scramble, with homemade toasted whole grain bread.

The comfort of something familiar was something he needed, after last night, and to prepare for what was to come later in the day.

He supposed an okay night, on the whole, but he winced thinking about the head bonk and the bruise on both their heads. Frank encouraged him to go back to see him, but Bill couldn’t shake the feeling that he was only being nice. Or maybe he just liked money. On the other hand, he’d enjoyed watching Frank dance. It had been a lot, bordering on overwhelming; it was the first time that Bill felt like someone acknowledged that he was anywhere in a space like a strip club, and all the attention was more than he could deal with for any extended period of time. But the alternatives…

He’d tried to watch strippers on webcams, and for a bit that had worked, especially during the pandemic. He disliked people, and he disliked eye contact. Not having to interact with people was a benefit he couldn’t deny, but his therapist had strongly recommended he at least try to be around people, even if he didn’t interact with them. As a human, Bill always felt judged, but some of the internalized homophobia he’d had to face involved processing the concept that far fewer people cared than Bill thought did.

His sexuality had been something to hide, always. He still had paranoia over who could monitor what he did on the internet, and ran most of his traffic through a VPN. He’d even tried watching porn online, and found it to be terrible. Sex didn’t have a lot of appeal on it’s own; he’d tried it once, near the end of high school, and he hadn’t liked it. Maybe it was that it was Margaret.

Maggie had probably deserved better than someone not even attracted to her. Bill had gotten through it only because they’d been in her bedroom, when her parents weren’t home, and he could hear her brother’s voice through the wall, hanging out with a friend in the room next door. Tim. That should have Bill’s first clue, but all he’d really realized at the time is that he didn’t enjoy any of it. He liked coming over to see Maggie because then he’d get to see Tim.

Bill determined the eggs were done and he scraped them onto a plate. He’d already laid out silverware at the table, along with a cup of coffee, and he edged through the door into the dining room. Now that he had breakfast, he went back to thinking about… everything, really. How sex itself held no appeal, how he didn’t entirely understand what attraction was supposed to even feel like. It came and went, feeling very conditional to him. The pictures in magazines provided him images in his mind, as had the videos, but it didn’t make him feel like he wanted anything more than that. And that was safe, it was easy.

Going to a strip club had been a long process, one that started with dissatisfaction with status quo. He wasn’t sure he felt any more satisfied than he had, but at least it made him feel less shamed for who he was, like he should stay hidden. There was something to being able to sit somewhere and not feel so out of place that he had to go home and take a Valium just to take the edge off the anxiety. Attraction was still a mixed bag, it wasn’t just anyone that Bill had any inclination towards. He still didn’t like most people; he found them loud, cruel, too much pressure.

Bill loaded up a fork full of eggs and lifted them to his mouth, chewing as he his mind wandered. Frank had been okay, all things considered. Maybe more than okay. Bill had laid awake late the night before, wondering what he should think. The only thing that had stopped Bill from what could have been a very awkward situation was that he left when he did. And the residual embarrassment of hitting Frank on the head. He supposed at least he hadn’t had to leave in a hurry to do his laundry, at least.

He wanted to see Frank again, but something about making eye contact with someone complicated everything. That’s why he didn’t bother with other people to begin with. They’re too hard to figure out. The problem is that Frank wasn’t like most people Bill knew, or at least didn’t appear to be. He listened, even though Bill was unwilling to speak. He didn’t know if he trusted Frank, but he appreciated Frank. Frank just felt different. Bill felt drawn to him, sort of like his nerves were on fire when Frank got close. Was this attraction? Bill wasn’t sure, but then he started to wonder if other people felt like this all the time. It sounded exhausting.

He finished his breakfast and got ready to go to work. Despite his plan to work from home, there was a morning meeting in the office, and it was closer to the doctor’s office where Becca had her afternoon doctor’s appointment. And that thought pulled Bill right out of anything else. What if it turned out the leukemia isn’t gone?

Nothing he could do until they got to the doctor. All he’d do is hold her hand if she needed it, which didn’t seem like much help, but Becca looked like she was going to sob in relief when he agreed to go with her.

After washing the dishes, he got into his truck and headed to the office. He told himself it would only be a couple of hours, and that he could handle that, even on a Friday.

At work, he managed to avoid any other people, making his way through the more quiet part of the office. The side that avoided Steve, which suited Bill just fine. He put on his headset and pretended to be listening to another meeting, just to discourage anyone from talking to him. He watched Steve start his direction, so he started speaking into his mic to sell the illusion of him working.

“Yeah, that’s my understanding, too.” He nodded. “Can I get a status on point 2a from the doc?”

Steve swerved off and away, and Bill let out a sigh of relief. Hopefully that would be it, he’d go to this one meeting with management, and he’d get out. He’d be early to meet with Becca, but that was better than Steve.

Unfortunately, management had different plans. Bill got to the meeting ahead of everyone else, to take the seat he liked the most. He also knew that people would fill in the other seats first. Most of the office seemed awkward around him. The rest of the seats filled up until just the one to Bill’s right was filled, which suited him fine.

The door to the conference room opened again, and Steve Jacoby entered, grinning. He crossed the room and sat down next to Bill. “Hey Bill! Long time no chat.”

Why was he so fucking friendly all the time?

Bill pulled his laptop closer to type his notes, slouching down behind it. It did him no good against Steve, though, who was directly next to him. He forced himself to pay attention, and as soon as the meeting was over he slapped his laptop closed and got up to leave. Steve stepped around the conference table and blocked Bill’s path “Hey got a minute?”

“No,” Bill snapped, stepping to the side. “I’m busy.”

“I understand you’re driving the documentation standards initiative,” Steve explained.

Bill frowned. That’s it? There was documentation for a reason, and high quality documentation, at that. That was the whole point. “There’s a wiki. Read it.”

“I read it. Answer isn’t there.”

Bill sighed. At least a work related conversation he could handle, assuming that’s all Steve wanted from him. “Fine. But we’re not discussing in this huge room.”

They headed off to a small meeting room and Bill closed the door. “If this is a question that could have been an email-“

“It’s not.” Steve set his laptop down on the table in the room and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “You’ve been off since I saw you at the club.”

This wasn’t a great conversation for work, and Bill started for the door, reaching out for the knob. The only thing that stopped him from telling Steve to fuck off was a moderate amount of professional courtesy. “It’s none of your business.”

“I think it is.” Steve didn’t block him from leaving, but he held up a hand. “You’ve been avoiding me. I’ve got a project that’s risking running over because you haven’t signed off on the document. Any time I try to ask, you put me off. I’m not saying shit about what you do in your personal time.” Steve shrugged. “You’re too good of an engineer for whatever this is. Stop making it weird. That’s it.”

“You’re making it weird right now,” Bill muttered, his hand landing on the knob.

“Bill, stop. Listen.” Steve shook his head. “I used to be a stripper at that club.”

Bill blinked and let that set in. “Why would you tell me that?”

“Because now you know a secret about me. And if you ever want to meet some great strippers, I know some amazing ones.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” Bill retorted. He had enough stripper headaches as it was. This is why he hated dealing with humans. They just didn’t stop. 

“I figured. But maybe we can get back to working?” 

Bill pulled away from the latch, leaning against the door. He didn’t look at Steve, instead staring down at his own shoe as he scuffed along the awful brown, tan, and blue office carpet. All this could have been worse. What if he’d gone to a strip club and run into Steve as a stripper? God that was worse than bonking Frank on the head. He wasn’t sure he trusted Steve, but at least Steve wasn’t being a complete dick, aside from cornering him. “You, uh, you don’t do it anymore, right?” Shit question, but he had to be sure he wouldn’t be running into Steve if nothing else. 

“You won’t be finding me on a stage or anything, no. I did it for years while going through school.” He leaned forward to pick up his laptop from the table. “It’s hard work, to get an engineering degree. And I’d really like to get back to the document standards, and the overdue document review. I’d love some advice about how you enforce these in your own teams, we’re struggling with it on our end. I’d like to get my team’s documentation up to your level.”

“Yeah. I can do that.” He paused. There was too much going on today for him to figure this out, but maybe later. “I’ll review your document by Monday. Can we meet next week about the standards? I can go over the process in more detail.”

“Next week is great.” Steve gave a thumbs up. “Thanks, man. Appreciate you hearing me out.” He grinned. “I’ll put something on your calendar.”

“Thanks, it’s up to date.” Bill clutched his laptop against his chest and went back to his desk to pack up to meet Becca at the doctor. Well, that had been unexpected. And there was no way in hell he was going to tell Becca about it.

He put up an out of office message for the afternoon and went back to his truck, stuffing his laptop bag under the back seat to hide it from prying eyes. Then he headed over to the clinic, seeing Becca’s car in the parking lot with her still sitting in the front seat, staring at her phone.

He parked next to her and she looked over, her eyes wide. In a moment Bill was out of the truck and at the driver’s side door of her Camry hybrid, opening the door. He reached in and put a hand on her shoulder. Becca was the only person in the world he cared enough about to reassure like this, and he leaned into her car to put an arm around her. “Beck, stop doom scrolling. Let’s go.”

She leaned into him, her body feeling more frail than usual. “What if I just don’t go in? And never get any bad news?”

He snorted. “I thought we celebrated today already?” He stepped back. “Come on, let’s go get it over with.”

“I feel like I put the celebration too early.” She pulled in a deep breath and let it out, looking up at him. “I’m just so tired.”

“It’s the work.” At least he hoped it was her work. “If I can get through work, you can get out of the car. That guy from the strip club cornered me.”

Becca blinked then started laughing. “He actually talked to you about it?”

Bill wasn’t about to tell her the whole story; after all, if Steve was keeping his secrets, he should keep Steve’s. “He just said that he wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“I mean, why would he? You saw him in a strip club, too!” She tucked her phone in her pocket and unbuckled her seatbelt. “Since I know how much you hate interacting with most other humans, and you had to go through all of that, the least I can do is get out of my car I guess.”

“Yes.” He might not be able to read anyone else, or understand anyone else, but he knew how Becca worked. She was the one human that gave him faith that not all humans were awful.

Becca got out of the car and shut the door, squaring her shoulders. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

They headed into the clinic, then headed to the waiting area where Becca checked in. Bill didn’t want to hover, so he feigned interest in a painting on the wall behind a couch. A beach landscape at sunset, with a woman dancing. Bill wasn’t much for art, but he didn’t know what else to do while he waited for Becca. He looked over the painting and his eyes fell on the signature in the corner. Only two letters were even readable, F and B.

Becca came up next to him and started giggling. “Bill. That signature. It’s the same person that did the giant dick painting.”

“Becca!” he hissed, looking around frantically. But there was no one else in the waiting area. “How do you remember that kind of shit?”

“It’s a skill.” She pointed down near the bottom. “I’m certain this is the same painter. That’s a hell of a lot of versatility.” 

“Rebecca Kaplan?” a male voice called, and Becca turned around.

“I’m Rebecca.”

He smiled pleasantly, gesturing through the door. “How are you today?”

Becca and the nurse started chatting, and Bill followed along behind her. They were led to a room, and Becca dropped down into one of the chairs. Bill sat down in the chair next to her, putting his hands between his knees.

“The doctor will be here in about five minutes.” He smiled and left, leaving them in the silence of the room.

“I hate waiting.” Becca bounced her leg up and down and reached for her phone.

“Everyone hates waiting.” Bill glanced over at her. She had a frantic energy to her, her anxiety radiating off of her in waves.

In Bill’s mind, he’s remembering them as kids, remembering her first battle with leukemia at the age of seven. Her tiny body stuck in a hospital bed, the chemo taking so much out of her that sometimes she couldn’t even come come. Their parents had poured everything into her survival, all the more guilt when she’d, in their eyes, betrayed them.

Don’t cry! his mother snapped at him. It’s harder for me than for you, don’t you dare.

His father. You have to be a man, son. You can’t break, for your mother’s sake. For your sister’s sake.

But by that point, Bill was already broken. No room for feeling, no room for showing his own pain or fear. So he learned to push it all down, as deep as he could, and show nothing. The leukemia coming back had hurt like hell, and he’d been with Becca through all of it. He’d pushed down all of his feelings all over again, but now there was no one to tell him he had to. And eventually, all of that feeling, all of that uncertainty, had surged back up, leaving Bill a mess.

It had been the combination of Becca’s illness combined with the state of the world with the pandemic, that had made Bill finally seek some help. Becca had made him promise, since she didn’t know how much she’d be able to be there for him. Not having Becca to turn to had made him more reclusive than he’d even been before, and that time in therapy… well. More had come from it than coping with Becca’s illness.

Becca pried one of his hands out and interlaced her fingers with him. “I swear it’s been five minutes.”

“It’s been three.” Bill held onto her hand, though.

Becca nodded. “At least this time we don’t have our parents to fuck it all up I guess.”

“Small blessings,” Bill rumbled, then looked over as the door opened.

Doctor Donovan entered, sitting down across from them. She smiled. “Good to see you, Becca.” She held out a hand to shake hers; she let go of Bill’s hand to shake the doctor’s. “Bill, right?”

“Bill. Yeah.”

Becca seized both of Bill’s hands in hers, and Bill recognized it as her ensuring that he wouldn’t have to shake the doctor’s hand. He hated shaking hands.

“We’ve got your test results back.” She tapped a few keys on the keyboard, then turned the screen to Becca. “Congratulations, you’re officially in remission.”

Becca drew in a breath and slumped, a nervous laugh escaping her. Bill put an arm around her and felt like he’d collapse as relief poured into him, filling in the cracks that had formed over the course of Becca’s struggles in chemo. Oh thank god.

“All of your values look good. I know it’s been a long road, two years of chemo and recovery is a lot. Keep up with regular checkups so that we can catch anything that might arise. You should be able to start going back to more or less normal soon.” The doctor smiled. “Any questions?”

Becca shook her head, and the doctor excused herself. As soon as she left, Bill threw his arms around Becca. He couldn’t do it in front of someone else, but now that it was just them in the room, it felt good to hug his sister. Speaking felt too hard but they didn’t always need words. Becca shook in his arms, but she laughed. “I don’t even know why I was so nervous.”

“Because it sucks.”

Becca hugged him back. “You still up for making dinner?”

“I’ve got it all planned,” he assured her. He’d had a special meal in mind for the last two years, from appetizers, through dinner, to dessert. All the way down to the lavender lemon tarts.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Becca suggested, pulling away and standing. “The sooner we’re out of here, the sooner we get to open that fancy bottle of wine you’ve been saving.”

Bill chuckled. “Sure.”

It was only as they walked from the clinic that it really set in, and he and Becca parted at their cars, agreeing to meet in two hours so Bill would have a chance to go to the store. He waved to her as she left, then he sat in the parking lot for a long moment, tears welling up in his eyes. It felt better to let it happen, then to hold it back like he always had. It felt uncomfortable but real.

Maybe there’s hope for him yet, despite it all.

Chapter Text

The fundamental of Frank’s paintings was his outlook on life, his perception of reality through the lens of his own experience. He considered himself someone that looks at the bright side of things, a glass is half full optimist. The last few years had made him doubt that part of himself.

This afternoon, he worked on his sketches. They gave him a base foundation to build on his paintings from, and it gave him a chance to just empty whatever was in his head on any given day. Sketches of Tess, Joel, Sarah, Ellie, mostly, since they’d been the people he’d been most recently with. He’d done a few sketches while at their house, too, including several of Ellie making ridiculous faces. Tess leaning on the counter. Joel mowing the lawn. Sarah’s smile as she played guitar. She’d been teaching Ellie, who had taken to it like a fish to water. Soon the household would need another guitar at the rate they were going.

Frank’s phone buzzed next to him, then again. He ignored the incoming call, finishing up the new sketch he’d started. Sometimes, when he could remember their faces well, he’d sketch clients. A few sketches of Kevin, a few pages back. An absolutely hot customer he’d had a couple of weeks ago had just been passing through town, never to be seen again, which suited Frank fine. He loved getting to know them, but he also let them go. That was the job. At first it had made him sad, but now he welcomed the ebb and flow of it. He wondered sometimes where they went when they didn’t come back, but they were small, easy losses compared to his marriage.

He looked down at the sketch and sighed. Bill. In fact, there were about five sketches of Bill, somewhat unexpected. Frank knew what he was doing as he drew, but something in him just didn’t care. If Bill was what came to mind, Bill was who he sketched. But this seemed to be a lot of pictures of one specific customer, which gave him pause.

There was something about Bill that stuck with Frank, and he hoped that Bill would come back. Assuming Bill kept on the same schedule as usual, Frank would see him the next day, on Thursday (assuming Bill came in on the same day a third week in a row). Frank couldn’t help but think that Wednesday would feel longer.

Why was it the antisocial man whose head he’d collided with be the one that he couldn’t stop thinking about? Probably because in Frank’s line of work, someone who took a moment to know him beyond whatever persona he was wearing at the time was a rare thing.

Frank touched off the highlights and shadows of Bill’s hair, then sat back and rubbed at his eyes. He needed a break. He picked up his phone to text Tess, where he found a missed call.

Salim Hasad.

Frank felt a chill run down his spine, glad that the subsequent voicemail had been transcribed to text. He didn’t want to hear Salim’s voice. He read the message, then threw the phone down onto the couch and headed back into the kitchen. This was the kind of shit he didn’t need today. He thought about the few beers he had in the fridge, then he walked back out and picked up his phone to listen to the message.

“Hey Frank. Long time. I guess.” A familiar voice, a deep breath. “I wanted to ask if I could get one of your paintings of me for my mother. I mean, if you still have them. I’m sorry this is out of nowhere. Let me know.” A silence stretched on before the voicemail hung up.

“Fuck.” He didn’t want to call Salim back, especially as he couldn’t recall if he’d kept those paintings or not. He’d taken everything from that part of his life and packed it into his mother’s basement. He certainly didn’t want to try to have a conversation with Salim, either.

Instead, he called his mother, Dolores. “Hi Frank,” she answered, her usually chirpy tone. “You never call, you never write…!”

“Yeah, yeah. I texted you last week, Ma!”

“I know, angel.” No matter how long it had been since she left Alabama, a touch of her southern accent came through. “This about that painting?”

Frank cringed. “He called you first?”

“He certainly didn’t want to call you. I think he was worried you’d burned everything.”

“He doesn’t think I’m that terrible, does he?” Even though it shouldn’t still hurt, it hurt.

“He’s knows you’re sentimental. But he also knows you were mad.”

Well, that’s what happens when someone takes a job in another state and doesn’t tell their husband until it’s been finalized, although Frank certainly wasn’t innocent, not after becoming an emotionally shut down disaster, or after fucking Jorge. “Did you tell him you still had the paintings of him?”

“I told him you had some, and that he’d have to talk to you.”

Frank groaned. “Great, so now I have to return his phone call.”

“No one told me that I was supposed to lie to Salim about artwork,” his mother pointed out. “You might just want to get it over with.”

Good ol’ Ma, always efficient. “I can come check before work.”

“Great. Mel is here, maybe she can help.” He could almost see her grinning. “I’ll put out the cheese plate.”

She hung up the phone, and Frank had to laugh, just a little. His mother could never put out a simple cheese plate, it would be an ordeal that would lead into dinner. So Frank prepped everything he needed for work that night and headed over to his mother’s house. He was fortunate that it only took fifteen minutes, and he pulled up to the light green house, taking a moment to compose himself. Years ago, when his parents were still married, they’d lived in Baltimore. He’d moved to Boston for college, and over time, the rest of his family ended up living in the area.

His mother and her husband, Randy, had eventually bought this house, with a generous wrap around deck, and a staggering variety of hydrangeas in the yard. At last count, there were 34 varieties. His mother’s favorite, though, was the “Dear Dolores” variety. She claimed that she’d been so delighted to find a hydrangea that shared a name with her that she decided she wanted the house. At least, that’s the story she liked to tell.

Frank headed up the front stairs to the covered deck. The door burst open and his sister, Melody, threw her arms around him. “Frank!”

“Mel!” He hugged her, setting his chin on the top of her head. “How are you?”

“Better now that you’re here.” She pulled back and grinned. “Duncan and Randy went fishing and the girls are in school. Gives me a little bit of peace and quiet.”

Frank entered the house, the delicate smell of dried lavender in the air. He found his mother sitting on a stool in the kitchen, next to an impressive charcuterie tray and a vase filled with hydrangea. She couldn’t stand as long as she used to, but she could still put together a cheese plate and have it arranged perfectly. He hugged her, then snagged a piece of salami from the tray along with a slide of Gouda. He chewed on it to distract himself from whatever he was going to have to say next. Can I go look at the paintings that are so painful to look at that I hid them in your basement?

“Hi Ma,” he managed instead.

“I didn’t tell him which paintings were here,” she drawled. “You’re welcome to tell him to shove it if you’d rather. Hell, I can do it if you want.”

“No, it’s fine.” Frank sat down on a chair next to her. “He’s my ex.”

“Your father is my ex, but that doesn’t mean he’s always my problem.” She chuckled.

“He’s mostly Jeff’s problem,” Melody asserted, lingering near another chair. “And a lot less problems than he used to be. So, do you want to go get this over with?”

“We can’t just tell him the basement flooded and everything was destroyed?” Frank asked, loading up a cracker with Brie and fig jam and stuffing it into his mouth.

“Afraid not.” Melody tugged at his arm. “Come on. It’s not so bad. I can even ship it for you if you want.”

His mother waved them away. “I’ve got some ham and scalloped potatoes, too. You’ll have to move fast to beat Mel, I’ll heat it up.”

“I can’t eat that much potato, Ma!” Mel called, dragging Frank to the basement stairs. She opened the door and it swung open with a sharp creak. She flipped on the light, descending down the creaky, narrow staircase. “It’s nice to see you, even if the circumstances could have been better.”

“Same.” He smiled despite everything. “We’re still planning on family dinner next month, right?”

“That’s the plan. It’s still up the air as to where we’re doing it. We’d planned on here, but our other brother says he’s got a surprise that might change that.”

“That sounds like he found a house, finally.”

“He won’t say. But it’s entirely likely, at this point.” Melody edged her way through the crowded basement. “Glad I wore jeans today. Ma’s got a lot of crafting stuff down here, too.”

Frank sidestepped a giant tub labeled yarn. His mother loved creating things, but had more hobbies than she could keep up with. “I noticed.” He followed Melody to the far side of the basement, to what was once a dark room but now was storage for paintings that Frank couldn’t fit in his apartment.

Melody stepped aside and let him through and he flipped on the light switch as he walked through the door. She peered in past him. “You should just do a showing, Frank. You’ve got gold in here!”

Frank snorted. “It’s not that easy.” He started flipping through the closest stack of paintings. “I put in an application for a show in December. A full showing, just my work. They probably won’t take it, but I figured I’d try. I’ve sold a few paintings up at Gabby’s shop, too.”

“Well, yeah, they’re not gonna take it with that attitude!” Melody leaned against the door frame.

Sometimes Frank forgot how many paintings he really had around still, from all stages of his artistic development. “I really need to buy a house someday,” he muttered, flipping through a pile of landscapes. He hadn’t organized them in any sort of reasonable way, but in a way, that helped.

A whole history of his art was here, from his earlier pieces, through his different stages. An ebb and flow of life, of energy, and he felt the lack of it since Salim was gone. He didn’t even think it was the loss of Salim, it was something else that nagged at him.  

He got to a section of pictures of Salim, and expected to feel a drop of sadness. It never came. Instead Frank was struck with the frenetic energy of his lines. He blinked, staring, then flipped to the next one. Also Salim.

“Did he say which one he wanted?” Melody asked, idly flipping through a stack closer to her.

“He didn’t. At least not to me. But there’s one in here…” He flipped through several more paintings. “This one.” He carefully tugged it free, holding it up in front of him. “This had been his favorite.” Salim, bent over his guitar, his face lifted into the sunlight. Surrounded by the plants that filled their space. But what struck Frank is when he did this picture. It wasn’t even during the happiest time; it had been early in the pandemic, when everything was difficult, complicated. So how did this have a vibrancy that his current work didn’t have? There’s a relaxation to the strokes, a flow, that felt forced lately.

“Oh wow, that’s gorgeous.” Melody pulled out another painting, one of butterflies. “Frank, these are all gorgeous. They’ll absolutely invite you to do the show.”

“I don’t know.” He slipped the painting out of the room and set it out of the way. “I feel like I used to be a better painter.”

“Maybe you’re just evolving. We all do that.” She reached out and touched the painting in front of her. “The thing is, you’ve been through a lot in the last year. A job change, a divorce, a move, that all adds up. It throws you off. You got used to creating with pressure on you, constantly. From work, from Salim.”

Frank drew in a breath, letting his gaze go over each of the paintings he could see. “Kind of like, maybe I used this as an outlet, and now I have a lot less to escape from? I’m not sure if that’s helpful. I’m faced with a disaster life and good art, or a calm life and feeling creatively stuck? I don’t love either.”

“I don’t think you’re stuck with anything. I think you need to step back and find the thing that works for you.” She paused. “Is your living room the only place you paint?”

“What’s wrong with my living room?”

“Nothing! But you used to paint here, or in different rooms, or in parks. Maybe it’s change of scenery.” She thought for a moment. “Why don’t you just take your sketchbook to work and sneak in some sketches between dances? It’ll give you a little bit of pressure to move quickly, and you won’t have time to be a perfectionist.” She punched playfully at his shoulder. “Besides, you’d have no shortage of material.”

Something now itched at Frank. “I could bring a sketchbook,” he admitted. He tended do everything from memory when he got home, perhaps Mel was onto something.

“Lucky for you, Ma has too many, grab another one and ask her.” Melody grinned and moved towards a shelf full of unused sketchbooks. “She’s not using them, you may as well.” She tugged down a bin full of pencils and flicked it open. “Ma hoards art supplies like some people hoard for the apocalypse.”

Frank pulled down a sketchbook, a smaller one to stash more easily, and picked out a box of pencils in different sizes. For good measure, he picked out a couple of pens as well. “There, happy?”

“If you are, you know I am.”

He grinned. “Good enough.”

Melody gestured back at the paintings. “Let’s shove my stupidly talented brother’s stuff back in the room until he gets off his ass and does a show with it.”

They put the paintings back in the room, and Frank looked at them differently, trying to remember the times in his life that he created them. Melody wasn’t wrong. A lot of his best paintings seemed connected to stressful times. He wasn’t sure if he painted better while he was stressed, or if now the relative quiet was just another type of stress that he didn’t know what to do with.

When they were done, they were left with the one. “Just let me text him to make sure this is it.” He wasn’t even sure how he’d ship this to Salim. He couldn’t afford shipping on something this large, so that’s something he’d have to deal with. Pulling out his phone, he snapped a picture of the painting and texted it to Salim.

Is this the one? Can you cover shipping? He hated to ask because maybe it sounded petty, but Frank didn’t have any alternative.

A pause, then the message was read. Another message came back almost immediately. Thanks, that’s the one I was thinking. I’m glad you kept it. Happy to pay for shipping. He added his address.

Frank let out a breath of relief, then his phone rang. Of course Salim would follow up with a call. Frank considered ignoring it, but Melody shook her head and carried the painting, sketchbook, and pencils off, starting back up the stairs. That left him to answer the phone. He hadn’t talked to Salim in a year, and the thought of doing it now made him wonder if he’d have to go puke in his mother’s washing machine. Now that would be awkward.

Damnit. He put on his best “there’s nothing wrong” face even though Salim wouldn’t see it, then answered the phone. “Hello,” he greeted, putting himself in the mindset that this was someone else. Not his ex-husband.

“Hey Frank.”

Salim sounded far too composed and Frank hated it. He wasn’t prepared for the calmness of Salim’s voice, a calmness he hadn’t heard since everything started to go wrong between them.

“Sorry to call,” Salim continued. “I don’t know what time you have to be at work.”

“Soon, but I have a few.” Noncommittal enough but gave him an out.

“I appreciate it.” Salim drew in a breath. “Mom’s not doing well. We’re headed out there to go see her, so I’m trying to get the painting delivered on a rush.”

Frank caught the use of we and he fought the urge to ask. “I can ship it tomorrow. I can front it and let you know. PayPal still okay?” God it felt like a weird internet purchase at this point, and Frank didn’t know what to make of that.

“Yeah.” Salim fell silent for a moment. “I wanted to ask if you could maybe…” He drew in a breath. “I need a favor.”

Frank frowned. “So going through these old shit memories isn’t enough of a favor?”

“Frank-“

“This is bullshit. I just went through all of these pictures, and you’re asking for more.” This was how everything started to fall apart in the first place. Neither one could draw great boundaries. 

“Frank. Stop being an asshole.” There’s that Salim bite, and for a moment Frank felt satisfaction. “Mom’s dying.”

Frank froze. God damnit. “I don’t know what you think I can do.”

“She’s forgetting people. She still remembers you, and she still adores you.”

“Salim, I-“ Frank stopped. “Fuck. I’m sorry.” Every protest he had evaporated. Amani had been kind to him, even though she hadn’t always been able to support them. There’d been a time when that had been hard for Frank to accept, but Amani had loved him in her way. Which is more than could be said for the rest of Salim’s family. He reminded Frank a lot of his own mother. “What do you need?”

“Can you record a little video for her? Just to say hello.”

Frank swallowed. He started to wander back towards the room of paintings and put Salim on speakerphone. Frank sighed. What would it hurt? Other than himself, but this wasn’t about him. It was about a woman slipping away who needed comfort. Frank had given away so much comfort every day, more of himself than he could reasonably manage, and now Salim was asking him to do the same. The same man who criticized him for putting others above himself. And now this man asked Frank for help. To make his mother feel better, while also letting slip that he was dating someone new. 

“Yeah. I’ll do it.” Damnit. Still a pushover.

Frank heard another male voice in the background who he presumed was the other half of we. Frank heard the rather obvious sound of a kiss. “Sorry. That’s Darren.”

It stung, but not as hard as Frank thought it would. The worst was the pang of sorrow, because Frank didn’t feel like he was ready to try again. On the other hand, it had been a year. But it hurt a little that Salim moved on while Frank felt like he still picked up the pieces. “Tell him your asshole ex says hi.”

Salim chuckled, but it was tinged with strain. “You’re not an asshole, you just can be an asshole. For what it’s worth.”

“That’s generous. I think.” Frank looked through the paintings and found one of a beautiful lantern that had been in Amani’s home. Even if she didn’t remember it, maybe it would evoke some memory. “Can I send her another painting? Just something bright. It won’t be anything huge. I’ll cover any extra shipping. Your mother was good to me. It’s the least I can do.”

“She’d…” His voice hitched with what sounded like repressed tears.” She’d really love that, Frank.”

Frank decided to spare them both the pain of this conversation going any further. “I’ll send a good one. Give me a couple of days on the video. I gotta go.”

“Yeah. Me too.” A sigh. “Thanks.”

Frank hung up before they could discuss anymore, or before he said something he’d be mad at himself for. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but a relief settled over him. He felt lighter, more optimistic, which he shouldn’t. Talking to Salim should have been upsetting, but instead, it felt like a closure. Send him one last piece of art to be kind, and move along. They’d been good together, at one point. Amazing together, even. But stress and the rigors of life had been too much, and had changed them both. Frank liked the person he had become more than the person he’d been then. 

Frank tucked the picture under his arm and closed up the room before going back upstairs.

He reached for the light switch when he got to the top, and then his ankle gave out, rolling outwards. Frank careened into the wall with a thump, and managed to keep himself from dropping the painting. Pain shot through his ankle and he leaned against the railing, pulling himself up the last two stairs. Well, that was going to make work awful, but at this point, he’d have to ice it, wrap it, and hope for the best. He could wear his taller pair of boots that he had in his car, and that would hold it steady enough.

By all rights, he should probably just call in, but he needed the money, and he needed the distraction. 

So fuck it, he’d eat all the scalloped potatoes he could get, even if he had to arm wrestle Mel, because tonight was about to be a long night.

Chapter Text

Wednesday. Bill didn’t love Wednesdays, as a rule, due to the fact that everyone tended to go into the office that day. Too many meetings, too many bodies, too much chatter, too many people not refilling the coffee pot after they’d finished the last cup. The company brought in lunch on Wednesdays, but Bill tended to hate free food at the office. Partially because the food was shit compared to anything he’d bring for himself, and partially because of the social aspects. When he ate alone, he preferred to be by himself.

Today, he’d pretended to be in a meeting until after lunch was almost done, then swept through to collect what was left. At least it was free, and he’d dislike it fresh or 45 minutes later anyway. Steve messaged him to let him know food was there, a kind gesture Bill supposed but also a useless one. He didn’t want to eat lunch with Steve, either. Especially not with Steve. Catching someone in a strip club didn’t mean they get to be friends. In fact, in Bill’s case, he didn’t have friends at all.

However, he did have an afternoon meeting with Steve, that thankfully stuck to document standards with no mention of strippers or anything else that wasn’t any of Steve’s business. Great.

What he didn’t love was that he had to do an evening meeting with an offshore partner the next night, which meant he couldn’t go to The Bou-Peek. He didn’t want to go Friday or Saturday because they were busy nights, and he had no idea what nights Frank would be there. He supposed he could call, but then he’d have to ask about “Armond”. Or Almond.

He got out of work at a halfway decent hour, with a plan to stop at Vino Bella on the way home. The wine shop had moved in about a year ago down the street from his house, replacing a little quilt shop. Bill welcomed the change, as the quilt shop had reminded him too much of his mother. Not like he’d had a terrible mother, but the little quilt shop had been her favorite and that sent a shot of sadness through him.

The wine shop, though, had been another matter entirely. He only went in once a month, but he tended to get a case or more every time. He also had a couple of wine subscriptions that he had delivered there, to avoid having to interact randomly with delivery drivers. He’d rather deal with the shop own, Gabby, every month or so, and get it over with. Predictable.

He pulled into the parking lot and got out, walking past a couple of other shops to get there. An independent coffee shop (that did their own roasting, no Starbucks shit in Lincoln), a boutique that Bill had never been inside (that Becca loved), and then Vino Bella. He pushed open the door and stepped into the cool interior. Rows of wine covered nearly every wall, with a few paintings hanging in any open spaces.

“Hey Bill!” Gabriella Hernandez greeted from behind the counter. Her dark hair was pulled back into a bun, and today she wore a deep merlot colored top. “How are you?”

“Fine.” He came up to the counter. “You?” He didn’t mind asking Gabby, because he knew she wouldn’t plague him with a dramatic long version.

“I’m fantastic.” She grinned. “Bought the blue house next to yours.”

Bill blinked. “That overpriced thing?” That was marginally reassuring. He could deal with Gabby as a neighbor, he supposed. She was friendly, but not nosy. She would talk about what’s happening in the neighborhood, but not in a gossipy way. Best of all, she already knew he was a bit strange, so that would be that much fewer surprises. On the other hand, once she figured out she lived next to someone as paranoid as Bill was, he hoped she’d still cheerfully collect wine recommendations for him.

“It’ll make a lot shorter commute. My husband and I closed on it last week.”

“You paid too much,” Bill muttered. What a rip off! He couldn’t believe anyone fell for that, much less someone who ran a business. Maybe her husband wasn’t too bright.

“We negotiated a bit. The location can’t be beat. It’ll also mean I can put some more time into the shop. Promise I’ll be a good neighbor.” She jerked a thumb towards the back. “I’ve a case for you, feel free to look around for anything else.” She stepped away and went through a door, painted in a beautiful mural of grapes, vines, and leaves.

Something about the styling stuck with him, reminding him a bit of a portion of the mural at The Bou-Peek. Perhaps the area just didn’t have that many people that painted things. He looked around at the wine selection, picking out a few bottles and setting them on the counter. As he perused the Pinot Noir selection, he paused at another painting between that section and the Cabernet Sauvignon bottles. This painting leaned towards abstract, an assortment of darker flowers that swirled into shapes.

At the bottom, the same signature from the painting at the doctor’s office, and presumably from The Bou-Peek.

“Local artist,” Gabby commented, and Bill looked back to see Gabby putting down the box of wine on the counter. She picked up a flier from a holder and brought it over to him.

Bill didn’t need to learn about a random artist, but his curiosity got the better of him. Becca would love to know the answer to the mystery. The side facing him featured a sampling of paintings, then he flipped it over to find a section called “About the Artist”.

A full color picture of a dark haired clean shaven man stared back at him, smiling. “F.B.” was “Frank Brightman”. And even though the picture wasn’t recent, and it was tiny, it nagged at Bill.

He wasn’t about to ask Gabby. He was pretty sure this was the same Frank that had dominated far too many of his thoughts for his own comfort over the last week.

He wondered if that was his real name, again, since his last name seemed so on the nose. He skimmed the description, which was surprisingly light on details about Frank. He’d graduated from an art school in California, with a degree in art and classical artistic studies. He lived just outside of Boston, originally from Baltimore. Nothing particularly personal, but Bill gleaned some small facts out of it anyway.

Even though there was nothing to overlap this artist with a stripper named “Armond”, Bill became more certain of Frank’s identity the longer the idea filtered through his head.

“We do sell paintings, if you’re interested. There’s a website on there, a lot of things listed. You’d have to contact him directly to purchase anything we don’t have here.”

“You don’t keep them here?” The paintings fit well, he was surprised that they’d sell them.

“I’d love to, but I’d rather he make some money off his art.” She reached past him and pulled down a 2016 bottle of Pinot Noir. “I think you’d like this one, while you’re here.”

“Sure, I’ll take it.” He probably should look at the price tag, but he didn’t bother. Her recommendations were solid. His eyes drifted past the painting. “How well do you know the artist?”

“Well enough.” She slid the bottle into a second half case and added his bottles. “Now you’ve got a case and a half.”

He tucked the flier into one of the boxes, paid for his wine, and juggled the boxes back to his truck. Back at the house, he unpacked the boxes of wine in the basement, organizing it by type horizontally and year vertically, with the older years at the bottom. He took out the flier and set the boxes aside, then headed down to the bunker.

He dropped down into his chair, pushing the flier away. Why had he let Gabby give that to him? He picked it up and moved to ball it up, then paused. Sure, he’d come this far, may as well look up the fucking website.

Pulling his keyboard towards him, he stretched his fingers before entering his password. Then he opened a browser and went to the website. From this computer, he had no privacy worries. Everything on this PC was done through a VPN, not that he’d use that to go crazy but he wasn’t above stealing some music now and then. Not like the artists got any of the money anyway. Fuck record companies.

The site loaded and Bill blinked. Paintings that ranged from the traditionally beautiful to the poignant, wandering, and… sorrowed?

One painting stood out, and Bill couldn’t help but look at it as hopeful, even if that may not have been its intent. Browns and greens, like a forest but a little abstract, pulling him in. A golden light filtered through the tangle of branches. Bill wasn’t into art, generally, but maybe he’d buy a painting for Becca. Or maybe he’d get this one for himself, since it reminded him of quiet times away from everyone else.

Then again, if he did buy any paintings, it would certainly be something awkward to explain to Frank. We noticed you painted a giant dick, part of a mural, a random painting at a doctor’s office, and a bunch of things at a wine shop. Yeah no nothing weird about this at all.

With a sigh, Bill pulled up Frank’s bio and schedule from The Bou-Peek’s page. Or rather, “Armond.” Live at The Bou-Peek Wednesday through Sunday!

Another banner under it announced Half price private rooms Wednesdays!

He pulled the tabs and put them side by side. Now he had no doubt that this was the same man.

To hell with it. If he had to work late tomorrow, maybe he’d just go anyway after dinner tonight. He’d come this far; he may as well enjoy the ride. And this time he’d leave his phone in the car.

He walked through the door of The Bou-Peek, pausing to look at the painting and its’ signature in the corner. Sure enough, as Becca had observed, it was the same signature.

“There’s more cock than that inside,” Joel said, jerking his thumb towards the hallway to the rest of the club.

Bill grunted and handed over his ID and $20. Joel pulled out a $10 and handed it back with Bill’s ID. “Half off cover night,” he explained. He watched as Bill put it back in his wallet, then waved him in.

Bill appreciated that most of the time, Joel at least left it at one joke and then he shut up. Wasn’t sure he liked this guy, but at least he didn’t try to chat Bill up.  

After walking in, Bill realized why Wednesdays were half price. This place was dead.

He loved it.

He took a deep breath before sliding up to the bar, resisting the urge to touch the spot on his head where the bruise had been the week before. What if Frank hadn’t really meant that he wanted to see him again?

Eh. He’d find out soon enough. He sat on a stool at the bar, and Tess looked like she was about to smirk then stopped. “You’re early.”

“Yeah.” He pulled the drink menu towards him, glancing at the wine selection. All of the wine was horribly overpriced versus what he could buy on his own. He’d drink when he got home. He glanced at the board announcing the special. Today it was a Spite Sprite: Sprite, mango syrup, a dash of jalapeño bitters, a sliced jalapeño for garnish. Sure, he’d try it. “Special.”

“You’ve got it. Start a tab?”

Bill didn’t want to run his card any more than he had to, not after running a private room on it last week. His credit card statement had listed TBP Inc, and he appreciated the discretion, but he didn’t love leaving his card around. He passed over cash and waited for his drink, looking around the room. Frank walked out from the corridor to the back, moving slower than usual. Bill couldn’t tear his eyes away and he wondered if Frank had seen him already. A part of him hoped he did. A part of him wondered if he’d made a mistake; on a busier night, he had the crowd to obscure him him. Even if he made it to his corner table, he’d be noticed easily. He felt exposed.

Tess made a tsk noise and passed the drink over to Bill. “Hey, take it easy on him if you get a dance.”

The fuck’s that mean? Bill sipped his drink as Frank approached. Spicy and sweet. Seemed to be the theme for drinks around here. Frank wore shorts, tall boots, and a pair of suspenders. Bill found himself wondering how he looked dressed normally, if he passed Frank on the street.

Frank’s face lit up, or at least Bill thought that’s what happened. Frank sat down on the stool next to Bill, folding his hands on the bar. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“Me, too.” Fuck, this was like telling the gate agent to also have a nice flight. “To see you, I mean.”

“How’re you holding up?” Tess asked, eyeing Frank.

The smile slipped off Frank’s face and he shook his head. Bill got the distinct impression he didn’t want her to continue. “I’m great, Tess. Hand me one of those specials.”

Tess made the drink, but she kept watching Frank.

“Okay, I don’t know what you two are playing at,” Bill said, frowning. He didn’t like whatever weird invisible communication these two had, and he wasn’t good at reading people. What was worse was knowing that something was happening, but he didn’t get it.

“Tess worries too much.” Frank blew Tess a kiss then picked up the drink as he turned to Bill. “Want to go to the back?”

Of course that’s what he wanted, but something about this was off. “If you’ll tell me what the fuck is going on, sure.”

Frank looked ready to give some kind of charming retort, but he bit it off and nodded, tugging at one of his suspenders. “Well, you know how to get me to do anything already.” He winked, then got off the stool and put his foot down on the floor. He brought the second foot down next to it, and while his smile didn’t slip, his weight never came down completely on his other foot.

Bill couldn’t read people’s faces, but he paid attention to details, and this didn’t look good. He followed Frank and noticed a slight limp. “The fuck you’d do?”

“Nothing I can’t handle. I was being clumsy. I save all of my moves for the club.”

Clumsy wasn’t a word that Bill would have ever applied to Frank. Even now, he walked with a certain grace, his toes pointed. Or that could be his boots.

Frank opened up the door to the same room as before. “I can still dance,” he said, looking back over his shoulder. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t even be here, and I’m not charging you for sitting here doing nothing.” He winked. “And I’m looking forward to picking up where we left off.”

Bill couldn’t believe this shit. “Seriously?” Bill pulled out the cash for the room out of his pocket as Frank shut the door. He threw it on the table. “I’m paying for an hour, and you’re sitting the fuck down.”

“Bill-“

“Sit. Down.” Bill pointed to the couch. “I swear to God, Frank.” He didn’t know this man well enough to tell him what to do, but Bill didn’t give a shit. Frank shouldn’t even be working if he was injured, and Tess likely had told him the same. Bill hated the idea of someone putting themselves out there for him while possibly suffering. “You’re probably not supposed to work with an injury.” He stabbed a finger at Frank. “You of all people should know better.”

Frank dropped down on the couch and put his leg up on the table. “Fine, happy?”

Bill shrugged and sat down next to Frank. He hadn’t really thought this through. “What happened?”

“I have an old ankle injury.” He rubbed at his leg. “Tess is pretty protective because she had to listen to me be a baby on the radio when it happened. She worked in our district’s dispatch.”

Bill idly wondered how a dispatcher goes from a bartender, but he didn’t really know Tess well enough to care. He didn’t know Frank enough to care, either and yet he felt something pluck at him. “If it’s an old injury, why work this job?”

“It’s usually fine. But I…” He bit off what he’d been about to say, and Bill saw his persona slip back over his face. “I got distracted.”

“And you didn’t take the night off.” It wasn’t a question. “I want the Frank answer, not the Armond answer.”

Frank lifted his head back and looked at the ceiling. “Much as I love this job, the sick time won’t cover tips. I can’t afford to take a night off.”

Anger boiled under the surface of Bill’s thoughts. He supposed sometimes he forgot how easy he had it. Bill couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so instead he started thinking about a solution. He didn’t really feel right handing Frank money to do things; it had felt awkward the week before, and it felt worse knowing that Frank clearly needed to get his weight off of his foot. He’d done things Frank’s way, and Bill didn’t like the this for that feel of it.

“You’re taking part of tonight off, then.” Bill pulled out his wallet and pulled out all the cash he had, setting it on the table. It was probably a good $300 and Bill could live without it. But what was it about this one specific stripper that made him want to put his money out there? Maybe Frank was more subversive than Bill had suspected. Or maybe Bill actually liked getting through Frank’s persona to some damned honesty. Either way he knew it was stupid to pay someone to sit down, but he was doing it anyway. “None of that ‘I give you money and you do shit.’ You’re going to stay right there.”

Frank pushed the money back towards him. “I can’t take your money to do nothing.”

Bill paused. He thought about Frank’s paintings, and he could ask about that. But he didn’t want to tip that hand just yet. What he wanted was to know how Frank had managed to fuck up his ankle. “I just said it’s for you to sit down.”

“Bill, I will lose my mind.” Frank chuckled, stretching and tucking an arm behind his head. “I don’t hold still.”

“Starting to see how you fucked yourself up. Thought you said some people just hang out.” Bill, shifted his attention from the curve of Frank’s arm to Frank’s boots. They couldn’t possibly be comfortable, although they were likely holding Frank’s ankle in place. “Can you at least take the boots off?”

Frank shook his head. “No. My ankle will swell and I won’t be getting out of here.” He searched Bill’s face. “We could just talk?”

Bill met Frank’s eyes and his breath stopped for a moment. He wondered if Frank just liked to argue for the sake of arguing, but Bill could tell that Frank had a method, a way that he did things. An energy. He wasn’t sure what he thought of that, but he felt drawn to it, to the challenge.

Bill still didn’t want to commit to talking, and maybe Frank noticed that.

“How about this?” Frank pointed to a cabinet by the door. “Open that cabinet and bring me the bag in there, and flip the leftmost switch on the wall.”

Bill almost sagged in relief to hand the control of the situation back to Frank, but now with a direction that aligned to his own wants. He stood and retrieved the bag, then flicked the switch. Additional lights came on and Bill blinked, flicking his gaze back to Frank. He could see the strain on his face with the lighting, as he set the bag down and sat on the other side of it. Frank arched an eyebrow at him and moved it to the other side of him, then wiggled closer to Bill until they were nearly touching. He winced as he shifted.

He opened the bag and pulled out a sketchbook and a box of pencils. “I do art as a side thing,” he explained. “I don’t usually draw in front of people. Never in front of anyone here.” He drew in a breath and let it out. “It’s very… It’s hard to explain.” He ran a finger over the pencils, rolling them in the box. “It’s a personal process.”

“You don’t have to.” Personal sounded like a burden, an invitation, something confusing. It sounded like it was meant for someone else.

“I want to.” Frank opened the sketchbook to the first page, which was blank. “I’m just going to draw, and we’ll sit here for a bit.” He touched his pencil to the paper and started a confident line.

Bill watched him work, mesmerized. The delicate, rhythmic scratching of the pencil on paper filled the room, Frank’s movements smooth, loose. “I don’t know what I’m going to sketch, sometimes,” Frank murmured.

Something about his voice, the sound of his sketching, soothed Bill. He watched Frank’s hand moving across the paper and found himself relaxing into the seat. He could almost forget where he was, and he closed his eyes, listening. A tingle started at the back of his neck and he leaned into it, into the comfort of the feeling.

“I like to do to a warmup,” Frank continued, his voice quiet, even. “It’s sometimes just whatever comes into my head.”

Bill opened his eyes and watched as Frank sketched a landscape.

“My mother used to take us to the tulip fields here. Sherwood Gardens, in Baltimore.” He sketched out garden, rows of tulips, and Bill watched, fascinated. He’d never seen the artistic process, not like this.

He followed Frank’s bare arm up to his shoulder, then to his face. Frank pressed his lips together, and Bill couldn’t stop staring, following their curves. He looked… pretty. Now Bill knew something was wrong with him, he’d never used that word about a person. Pretty. No, tulips were pretty, at least he supposed. He didn’t have a lot of use for flowers, or art, or for any of that. But he wondered if he could, someday. If he could see the beauty in things, in people, in anything other than silence.

Frank smiled and glanced towards Bill. It vibrated through Bill’s bones, his skull, his chest. Bill swallowed and licked his lips. He pulled back and looked away at the intensity of Frank’s gaze, overwhelmed.

“It helps to loosen up, but what I really love is sketching people.” He flicked to a new page, the field of tulips nothing more than a ghost of what it now doubt was. “I’d love to draw you. Is that okay?”

“Do I… do I have to do anything?” He certainly wasn’t a model, and he didn’t know how to pose, to sit, or even how to process what it meant that someone wanted to draw him. Someone like Frank wanted to capture him on paper.

“Not a thing. And I promise it won’t hurt,” Frank teased.

Bill stared down at the blank page and nodded. “Okay. Yeah.”

Frank’s smile bloomed like a flower after the rain, and it made Bill ache. Frank moved away from Bill enough to look at him, and touched his pencil down to the paper as he started to work. Bill let the sound carry him away, wherever it would lead him.

Chapter Text

The pencil in his hand gave Frank something to focus on that wasn’t the throbbing in his ankle, or his agitation towards the events of the day. Bill wasn’t wrong that he shouldn’t be working; he’d iced it at his mom’s house, with Melody and his mother clucking over him the whole time. He’d left before Melody’s husband appeared, because Duncan would probably physically block Frank from going to work. Which would have been his right, but Frank had dealt with his ankle so many times that he could handle it. Handling it and handling it gracefully, though, was not always a line Frank saw clearly.

The moment of respite made it clear that he’d need to take it easy for a couple of days. He hadn’t had any issues with his ankle since the day the divorce had been finalized, and that he could blame that on literally running until he couldn’t run anymore. He’d had to call his other sister, Erika, to come get him.

Maybe it was just Salim that wasn’t great for his ankle. He’d run whole marathons in that time and it had been fine, just to have it go on his mother’s stairs.

Frank flicked his gaze back to Bill, studying him. Here he was cast in a different light, more authentic. Blue eyes that swept the room before focusing back on Bill’s face. Frank followed the curve of his nose, the stiff wiry lines of his beard, the flow of his hair, the sable highlights catching in the brighter lighting of the room. He wondered what color it would be in the sunlight, but they seemed destined to only meet in darkness, in the dim lights of a club, in places the sun never shined.

“You probably came here looking for hot men.” Frank chuckled. “You got a limping stripper with a sketchbook.” He tried to sound light, but he felt the tightness of his own voice.

“I don’t mind.” Bill shook his head. He was a man of few, reserved gestures. “You’re the best guy company I’ve had.”

Frank supposed that he understood that Bill didn’t relate to many people, but certainly he hadn’t been that good of company. “I find that hard to believe.” Frank willed his fingers to uncurl, trying to find his grip.

“I don’t get out much.”

“That’s too bad for others,” Frank murmured, taking in small details that he couldn’t capture when he’d sketched him at home.

Bill sighed. “You don’t have to say that stuff. It’s okay.”

“What stuff?” Frank’s hand moved across the paper as he worked.

“The… nice things.” Bill closed his eyes, the tacky dark red couch creaking as he shifted. “You say nice things. You don’t have to.”

“I do, though.” Frank pushed into the paper and the pencil lead snapped off. Fuck. He took in a deep breath and stared at the offending pencil. He didn’t love the secondary lights in this room and who knows what he’d find if he looked too closely. The light revealed Bill, but it would reveal Frank, too. How did he look to Bill? Could he see the strain of the day on him? The extent of his gray hair? The weird scar on his shoulder from the guy that stabbed him about ten years back? Frank suddenly felt more exposed than he ever had since coming to The Bou-Peek.

In order to draw, he couldn’t be Armond. He’d have to be Frank, lean into his vulnerability, and now that they’d cracked that open, he’d have to carry it through. He’d have to let himself be… himself.

He wasn’t sure he knew how, not here. He reached into his bag and pulled out the box of pencils, picking out another one. If nothing else, improvise.

“Bill.” Frank held the pencil in one hand while he reached forward and touched Bill’s hand with the other. Bill tensed but didn’t flinch away. “I mean everything I’ve said to you.” He held pointed at the pencil case. “That pencil breaking? That was me trying to be Armond.” He pulled his lips into a smile. “Right now, I’m just Frank. Sometimes I flirt, but it’s just me.” Armond would chuckle, would be reassuring. Frank just trailed his fingers over Bill’s hand. “Do you think I routinely meet people here who put my comfort first?”

“Not as fancy as that.” Bill hesitated, his tendons rippling under Frank’s hand as he moved. “It’s just the decent thing to do.”

He had so many things he wanted to say, about how there weren’t a lot of decent people, how everyone that walked in that door wanted something from him. And he was sure Bill did, too.  Everyone wanted something, and Frank signed up for that willingly, it was his job, to take in those wants, those needs.

But Bill had turned that back around into wanting something that took care of someone else. Of Frank. Even if he seemed antisocial, even if he just didn’t seem to like most people… he could have asked Frank to keep going. Frank would have done it, with no hesitation, and he wouldn’t have given it a second thought. He wouldn’t have held it against Bill. 

Frank opened his mouth to speak then stopped, not sure what to say. “Thank you.” Not that he wanted to sit, but it filled him with a sense of relief that he didn’t have to pretend he was fine, due to Bill’s intervention. Frank didn’t have to pretend that anything was wrong, at least in that regard.

Bill’s hand was warm under Frank’s and Bill sustained eye contact. He nodded, once. “You’re welcome.”

He smiled to reassure himself as much as Bill as he pulled his hand back. “I like to do some small warmup sketches of a person before doing more detail,” he explained, continuing the first sketch. He could feel it, now, the way it flowed through him, from his mind to his hand.

Bill nodded, his brow furrowed, and Frank started with that. The paper was consistent, reassuring, and familiar. Exactly what Frank needed after the day, although it felt strange to do it in front of someone he barely knew. It wasn’t that Frank had an issue doing art in front of others, he’d taught whole painting classes over the years and done demonstrations. The sketch process, however, was a completely different topic, especially if he tried to capture a person as they sat there. It required trust on both sides. “You’re sure you’re okay with this?”

“If it will keep you sitting down, sure,” Bill said gruffly.

“You paid me to sit, so I’ll sit.” Frank moved his pencil across the page, capturing a rough outline. Bill’s hair fascinated him, the wave and curve of it. He wondered if it was as soft as it looked. 

“Not a lot of other options,” Bill muttered, shifting on the seat.

He wasn’t wrong, but it underscored that Frank felt bad for taking his money for nothing. On the other hand, he enjoyed Bill’s company, and Bill seemed to have put it down willingly.

The hardest part to capture would be Bill’s eyes, to capture the keen way he observed, watched, while also having an edge of suspicion. Sometimes that came across as annoyed in a sketch. Frank held the picture in his mind. 

“I’m pretty active,” Frank affirmed. “The last time I hurt my ankle like this, I was trying to outrun my problems.”

Bill snorted. “So your problems won.”

“Problems are like that.”

“Is it…” Bill’s brows drew together. “Is it better now?”

“Oh, definitely.” Frank moved over the paper, and Bill’s face looked back at him; in front of him, on the textured paper.

Bill’s keen attention seemed to be on Frank’s hands. Frank decided he’d make an effort at conversation and would find out where it went. “You’ve had two private dances, both of which went off the rails.” He didn’t end it on a question, to leave Bill the option to answer or not.

“It’s fine.” Bill shrugged out of the corner of his eye and silence stretched on for a moment, filled with the sound of the pencil on the paper and the hum of the air conditioning.  

Non-committal, but Frank would take it. “Have you been to other clubs?”

“One.” Bill sat very still, resting his hands on his knees.

“You can relax,” Frank prompted. “I still don’t bite, unless asked.”

“And still sounds like a health code violation.”

Frank let out a bark of laughter. “Fair.” He pulled up a leg to balance the sketchbook, spreading his legs wider. He felt more comfortable with Bill than he had with anyone recently, but he worried about him seeing every detail, every line. Bill turned away and Frank couldn’t tell if he didn’t want to look to be rude, or if he felt uncomfortable with the lack of clothing Frank wore. He should consider rotating some pants into work, but even so most of his work clothes were still stripper clothes, and the thought of trying to get out of his boots to put his jeans back on was horrible.

For that matter, he wasn’t sure how he’d get home. He might be driving home in booty shorts at the rate things were going.

“How long have you done art?” Bill asked.

Frank knew a change of topic when he heard it. “As long as I can remember.” Frank debated how much to say, then decided it didn’t matter what he said about art. It was the most public part of his life, just not the part he shared here aside from art of his that was on display at the club. Which included the entry’s cock and the design of the mural in the bathroom. “I have an art degree, specifically in painting. And if you want to know how I ended up being a paramedic, well, we all need to eat.”

Bill nodded, taking interest in the sleeve of his jacket. “There’s a painting in the entry.”

Frank was sure his grin could be described as shit-eating. “That’s 100% my cock.” He snickered. “I mean, not literally. That would be weird.”

Bill looked away. “Would be, yeah.”

“I’d probably be making internet videos and not working here.” More lines on the page. “I’ve been trying to sell some paintings. I’m hoping to do an art show later this year, see what I can do. I could use the break from all of this.” He realized that might have been too honest. “Not that I’m not glad to be here. This job is great, it’s just not my art.” He winced. “I’m digging a hole now.”

Bill looked thoughtful, shifting his eyes back to Frank’s face. “It’s fine.”

Frank shifted to a second sketch, catching Bill’s face from another angle, his eyes averted. Not shy, but much less overt than Frank’s usual clientele. “It’s okay to watch me. It’s what I’m here for.”

Bill sucked in a breath like he’d been caught. “I’m watching.”

“Mmmm.”

Bill didn’t watch like others watched. Frank turned his attention back to the profile of Bill’s nose, of the shape of his beard, the curve of his eyebrows. As he sketched, he watched Bill relax. To experiment, Frank tried pushing down harder on the pencil so that it made more noise as he sketched the flow of Bill’s hair. Bill let out a huff of breath and closed his eyes for a moment.

No, he wasn’t watching. He was listening.

Oh.

Frank fell quiet and let himself get lost in the sketching. He used to do this with Salim, sometimes while Salim worked on a song. In the same room, but separate, content. Frank liked the way Bill relaxed now, basking in the soft sounds of the room. Even the air conditioner had quieted, turning to a whispering hum.

Occasionally he noticed Bill’s breathing, even, relaxed. The rigidity slid away and he looked at Frank with half lidded eyes. That little line between his brows eased a little.

Frank smiled and kept drawing the second sketch, sometimes going up to touch up the first one. They’d be lightweight sketches, nothing fancy, but it had only been minutes, really.

The air conditioner rattled back to life, and Frank felt a wave of cold air wash over him. He shivered, pausing his drawing to run a hand over his arm. Rooms were cooled assuming some degree of movement, counter to his current state. Not a lot he could do about that; they didn’t have individual climate controls. He tried to push away the chill against his skin by drawing faster.

“You cold?” Bill asked, leaning forward.

“A little. It’s fine though.” It wasn’t fine, but Frank had done far worse. At least it wasn’t snow, or a hurricane, or any other number of uncomfortable situations. He tugged at one of his suspenders. “I have it coming for not wearing a shirt.”

Bill started taking off his coat. “Should have brought a sweater.”

Frank thought about stopping him, but then didn’t, wanting to let it play out. Bill slid his arms out of his jacket and got to his feet. He shuffled around the table in the middle of the room and held it out to Frank.

Frank looked up at him, but before he could speak, Bill set the coat over Frank’s shoulders. It settled on him, warm, and despite it’s weight Frank felt lighter. He pulled it closer around him, sinking into it, soaking in the warmth on this skin that was Bill. It contrasted with the cold air on his face but he breathed in the smell of Bill. Sweat, sandalwood, woodsmoke. Someone who like the outdoors. Someone who spent a lot of time in their jacket, who trusted enough to take it off and wrap Frank in it.

Bill walked back and sat down on the couch, his hands on his knees. Frank felt drop in his stomach. Then Bill reached up to tuck his hair back over his ear.

Something clicked in that pose and Frank stopped, staring. That was it, it was perfect. “Can you do that again?”

“Why?”

Frank held up the pencil. “Trust me.”

Bill blinked and looked at him like he’d trust no one, ever, then repeated the gesture. Frank watched him, trying to capture every line, the way his hair draped when pushed out of his face. The lines of his fingers, graceful, tactile.  

He flipped to a new page in the sketchbook, moving frantically around the entire page. The smaller sketchbook made it easy enough to do quickly, building each layer, each detail, of the man sitting in front of him. The way he ducked his head and looked down when he brushed his hair aside.

“Do I need to-“

“You’re fine. I memorize.” Frank held the image in his head. “Just be natural.” He paused to regard Bill, the first time he’d seen him without the protection of his jacket. Almost armor, really. His build, his shoulders, his torso… Frank stopped himself before continuing down to Bill’s legs.

Frank buried himself in the sketch, huddled in Bill’s jacket, and now his attention stayed on the paper, on the movements of his hand, of capturing the man sitting in front of him. The concept consumed him, the image he wanted to capture filling his mind, and he stopped trying to talk. And no doubt that would also suit Bill fine.

Bill shifted in his seat, bringing a leg up onto the couch. His shin brushed against Frank’s leg and settled there, their legs barely touching. The casual intimacy soothed Frank even more as he sketched.

The sketch came to life in front of him, occasionally he looked up to catch a detail of Bill. He lost all track of time, which wasn’t a great thing but worst case if the room was needed he’d just pay for more time out of what Bill had given him. He wanted to finish it now, he wanted to see this through to the end.

He’d worried that thoughts about the day, the events, the promise to Salim, would eat at him, but here they didn’t. Now he could sit there and let it just wash through him and away. Focused on the moment.

He reached into the box and pulled out another pencil to work on shading. He glanced over at Bill, who watched him from half lidded eyes. “Falling asleep on me?”

“No.” Bill blinked, running a hand along his own arm. “I won’t pay to sleep.”

“Some days I wish I could pay to sleep.” Frank smiled, tracing the line of Bill’s neck. Close, now. He just needed a few more minutes. It would be crude, lack all the detail he wanted, but the thrill of creation, of the art, whispered through him and he embraced it.

“I hope you get some sleep, then.” Bill looked at his watch. “We’re almost out of time.”

Frank was very aware of the passage of time, of the constraints. He could go over… but that sent a president that he’d learned to avoid. “I’m almost done,” Frank countered, working across the paper. It wasn’t going to be perfect, but he wanted it to please Bill. Finally he held the sketchbook up in front of him. He looked from the image to Bill’s face. It had turned out exactly as he’d desired.

He held the sketchbook out to Bill, who stared down at it for a long moment before bringing his hands under it to lift and turn it. Frank held his breath as a surge of anticipation went through him. Would Bill like it? Would he feel like it captured him?

Bill reached out and took the sketchbook from Frank, his eyes darting over the surface. He turned his eyes from the drawing to Frank, his eyes wide. “It’s… what the fuck? This is great.” Bill set the sketchbook down but kept looking at it. “I mean it’s really good.”

Frank felt a flush in his cheeks that he hadn’t felt in a long time. “You’re a good subject.”

Bill snorted, glancing back up at Frank. “I don’t look this good.”

“Bullshit. Go home at look at yourself in the mirror.” Frank studied his face, Bill’s eyes cast back downward to the sketchbook in front of him. “Do you want to keep it?”

“I can’t.” Bill held the sketchbook back out towards Frank, shaking his head. “It’s yours.”

“Take it.” Frank took the sketchbook back and carefully removed the page, handing it to Bill. He felt like he handed a piece of himself along with it. “I want you to have it. Consider this the most expensive sketch you’ve ever gotten.”

Bill held it in his hands, his fingers grasping it along the edges. Something revered, cherished, and the appreciation for something he’d created warmed Frank. “Thank you,” he rumbled.

He could listen to Bill say thank you in that voice all night. “You’re welcome.” Frank smiled and leaned forward, planting a kiss on Bill’s cheek. The hairs of his beard tickled at Frank’s lips. “And now we’re out of time.”

Bill froze, sucking in a breath as Frank withdrew. A flush filled Bill’s face and pulled the jacket around him. He posed in the jacket, holding the edges in his hands. “This is pretty comfortable. Maybe I’ll keep it.” He got to his feet, his ankle protesting. “I’m serious. Come get it.”

Setting down the sketch, Bill got to his feet, and Frank realized he was about to make a very poor decision.

Bill stared at Frank, his lips slightly parted as he stepped forward. Frank held his ground until Bill approached. He felt like someone had nudged him in the stomach. Fuck the customer rule, at times like this. Bill licked his lips and finally there it was. Got you.

It would be so easy to kiss him, to breathe him in. And what would it hurt? How could Frank stare at Bill’s lips and not think about kissing him?

Frank leaned in towards Bill, time rustled to a halt. Then Bill rose to meet him, their lips almost coming together, and Frank drew in a breath of anticipation.

His body coiled up, a string ready to snap, and then Bill pulled back. Frank pushed down the bitter tang of disappointment and his body deflated. Bill’s eyes were wide, bewildered, and Frank wondered if he’d wanted to and hadn’t been able to. Or if Frank had just read him wrong. 

“Have you kissed anyone before?” Frank asked, softly.

Bill backed away. “I have to go. Thanks… for everything.” He left the room.

Frank deflated and sat back down, with Bill’s jacket still around him. He felt in the pocket and found Bill’s keys. Any minute now he’d be back to reclaim his jacket and his keys. Maybe Frank should just leave the jacket for him and spare the embarrassment. Frank usually was pretty good at reading people, had he missed something?

The door burst open and Bill reappeared, his hair disheveled. He hadn’t made it far, and he’d clearly stressed the return trip. “Forgot the jacket,” he muttered, looking away from Frank.

The implied rejection stung, of coming back just for the jacket, and Frank slid out of the coat and handed it to Bill. “I’m sorry. I got carried away.”

“No sorry,” Bill muttered. “You asked.” He sucked in a breath. “Once. With a girl.”

Oh. Oh that explained a lot. “I’m a patient teacher. If you want to learn.”

The cool air blew back over Frank’s skin, and he felt the absence not just of Bill’s jacket, but of the feeling of Bill all around him.

“I’ll… think about it.” Bill nodded and Frank’s stomach dropped. He probably thought Frank meant for money, not because Frank actually wanted to kiss him.

But that opportunity had passed, and it would be complicated to explain. “You know where I am.”

“Yeah. I do.” Bill pulled on his jacket, and Frank wondered how much he’d overstepped by asking the question. “See you later.”

Bill hurried from the room, and Frank shivered, gathering up his bag. The sketch of Bill lay forgotten on the couch and Frank sighed, a sinking, slow, sadness sinking into him. Had Bill missed it, or had Frank pushed too far? 

A man liked his art and he scares him off. It figured.

Frank picked up the sketch, setting it down on the table and staring at it. Bill’s face stared back and Frank placed his hand on its edge, regarding it. He’d save it for Bill, assuming good intentions that he’d just bolted and forgotten it. He held the image of Bill’s amazement in his mind, and pulled out a pencil to do a quick sketch on a new page, to keep that moment in his mind. It was a simple sketch, no shading, the best he could do in the few minutes before he had to get to his feet and admit that he couldn’t keep working tonight.  

With that done, Frank tucked the drawing for Bill into the back into his sketchbook, and got to his feet with a hiss. He headed into the hallway with his bad. He passed Dani, her eyes red and puffy. Concern flooded him and he stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Are you okay?”

She came to a sudden stop and looked up at him. “Yeah.”

“Bullshit, Dani.” This level of stress could only mean one thing, and it didn’t bode well for The Bou-Peek.

“Same shit, different day.” She rubbed at an eye and Frank didn’t think she’d been sleeping well.

He hugged her. “We all need a day off. Is there anything I can do?”

“Right now? Go home and get off that ankle.”

Frank flinched. “Tess ratted me out.”

“No, I can see your limp down the hallway.”

Frank chuckled and pulled away from Dani. “I was coming to tell you I was heading home. It’s a slow night anyway.”

“We have too many slow nights.” Dani shook her head, looking back over her shoulder then back to Frank. “Get out of here and put some ice on that.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he affirmed, clutching his bag to himself.

She waved him off and headed back down to her office, and Frank watched her go, feeling deflated. Even The Bou-Peek wasn’t a certainty at this point.

The thought ate at him as he went to the back to painfully peel his boots off, put on some pants, and head home to elevate his ankle. He’d have to wait until he saw Bill again to find out if he’d burned a perfectly good customer relationship. Or if he’d managed to open the door to something else much more complicated. Either way, he wanted to see Bill again. He’d go so far as to say he craved it.

Tess would absolutely read him the riot act for admitting any of this, so when Frank got to his car, he collapsed in relief with the weight not on his ankle. He’d managed to get out of his boots and into his running shoes, but he regretted every moment of it now. He texted Steve.

Lunch Friday? Usual place near your work, 11:30?

Steve texted back almost immediately. I’m in! Have some updates for you. 

Frank grinned. Me, too. 

See you then!

Frank tucked his phone away, starting his car and buckling his seatbelt before starting his drive home. What he needed was a sounding board that would get what he’d been dealing with, and there would be none better than former stripper turned engineer Steve Jacoby. And besides, Steve owed him a lunch. 

With that sorted, Frank pulled out of the parking lot and headed home, thoughts of his night with Bill swirling in his mind. He’d never actually enjoyed a customer’s company this much. It exhilarated him, and scared him, in equal measure. Nothing he could do about that now, though, except go home and try to sleep with the pain in his ankle. 

Chapter Text

That meeting went far too late and by the end Bill was losing his mind. Surveys showed that 71% of meetings were considered useless and Bill considered himself an expert on that topic. Becca called earlier to complain that she couldn’t text him on his old shitty phone, and that she had something to bring him. Instead of eating early, he’d opted to snack on cheese. He didn’t have much at the house for two, but he made a quiche with the overage of eggs from his chickens, served with a lightly dressed salad of mixed greens, tomatoes from the garden, and edible flowers.

He prepped everything ahead of time, baking the quiche during the meeting. He left it on the counter as he went outside to feed the chickens. They clucked at him, a couple of random hens straggling and stumbling down the ramp, flapping their wings as they mobbed the wall of the enclosure.

“Yeah, yeah, keep your feathers on,” he muttered, reaching his hand deep into the feed bucket to retrieve a handful of feed. It slid through his hands and he flung it outwards towards the waiting chickens. They hurried up to greet him.

“Big fuckin’ chicken just keeps getting bigger,” Becca called. She walked through the yard, holding a paper bag in one hand.

“Yeah, big fuckin’ chicken’s gonna be dinner.” Bill looked down at the fat gray chicken, who stared back up at him.

“Aw, look at her though! Look at that egg laying machine!” Becca laughed and came up, setting down the bag and letting herself into the enclosure. “She’s too good for dinner.” She wrapped her hands around the fat chicken and held her up. “Just look at her.”

The chicken looked resigned to it’s fate; Becca had harassed her enough to figure that out. “Ok, fine.” Bill sighed. The sky had already started to go dark, the sun already past the horizon. Enough light to see by, but daylight was fading. Bill threw a handful of feed over the gate, scattering it all over Becca. “You can also be a big fuckin’ chicken.”

“Hey!” She set the chicken down and backed out of the pen, careful to not let any of the chickens escape.

“Flock with chickens, get fed with them.” Bill hung the bucket back up and gestured towards the house. “I made quiche.”

“Speaking of eggs.” Becca leaned down and slipped her fingers through the handle of the bag. “I brought you something.”

“I hope it’s dessert.” He glanced out at the big tree in the yard, and it suddenly reminded him of the painting on Frank’s site. It just brought him back around to the night before, to the forgotten artwork that he didn’t know how to ask for. He hoped that Frank kept it for him. He’d just been so flustered by… whatever that was.

Bill had wanted to take whatever bait Frank had offered, to close that gap. To kiss him. But he couldn’t shake that the fact that he was paying for the time didn’t put them on even ground, and Bill didn’t like that. He didn’t like the idea of someone getting that close to him, even after they’d spent that much time being close to each other. The closest Bill had ever been to another man. And really, he didn’t know Frank that well, not really. Bill felt like he needed to know more about him before he could take that step, have some kind of connection.

Frank’s words about not being able to take a night off nagged at him. “I also need a favor.”

“In addition to bringing a chocolate cherry cake from the fancy bakery, and bringing you a present?”

He started for the house. “Yes.” He pulled open the back door into the sun room, holding it open for her. The went into the kitchen and Becca leaned on the counter, setting the bag down as Bill looked at it, wary. “I’m sure I’ll regret this, but what’s in the bag?”

“Other than cake?” Becca reached into the bag and pulled out the cake, then a black box. “A decent fucking phone.”

Bill groaned. Oh no, he did not need this. “I don’t want any stupid expensive ‘smart phone’.” He shook his head, pushing it back towards you. “Do you know how much radiation those things give off?”

“Neither of us is living long enough for phone radiation to kill us. And you know that.”

Of course he knew that, but he still hated the whole idea. “They track everything about your identity.”

“And you think that current piece of shit you’ve got isn’t tracking anything about you?”

“Not as much as that… thing.”

“Bill.” She sighed. “Come on. I didn’t even get you an iPhone, because I know how much you hate that overly corporate shit.” She pulled it out of the box. “I set up a new number for you, you don’t even have to give up your old phone.”

He stared down at the offending phone. He didn’t want anything with all of the fancy extra functionality. Sometimes he just needed to make a call. “What do I even need this for?”

“You can set up your home monitoring setup with it,” she noted. “I know your house system is pretty old, but I think it wouldn’t take much. I’d even buy you a couple of cameras.”

He supposed that was sort of tempting, but he still didn’t love the idea of just learning some new fangled piece of technology. It wasn’t just the privacy, it was the whole thing of it all, the excess, the leaning some extra piece of… something. As is, he hated having a cellphone at all. “You know I’d just live off grid if I could, this is too much.”

“But that’s not an option. You live in a society and you have a job. So what does it hurt?” She shrugged. “You can always throw it away when society crumbles.” She held it up. “Besides, I preloaded it with a recipe app.”

“They’re probably shit recipes,” he grumbled, pulling a knife out of the block to cut the quiche. “Let’s eat then I can tell you how wrong your phone idea is.”

Becca chuckled. “You still haven’t told me your favor.”

Bill sucked in a breath, now self conscious about his thought to help Frank out by buying some of his art. “I was thinking of collecting a couple pieces of art.”

“First of all, I don’t buy that for a minute.” Becca set down the phone, reaching for the bottle of wine Bill had set on the counter. She pulled two glasses from the rack and poured the wine with a flourish. “Secondly, why?”

Bill shrugged, going to the fridge and pulling out the salad. “Thought I’d diversify.”

“Bullshit. You’re all practical.”

“You’ve got me.” He poured the dressing over the salad and tossed it lightly, then started serving it into two shallow dishes. He hadn’t thought this through very far. “Maybe I was going to buy one for you.”

“Then why do you need my help? As a present for myself?”

“I’m not good at picking things out. I just need someone to buy them for me, I’ll pay you back.” No, this was a bad idea. He picked up the salads and stated for the dining room. “You know, forget I said anything,” he grumbled. “Grab the wine.”

“Oh, no, now I want to know. If you’re still fine with telling me.” She followed him into the dining room, then waited at the table as he went back to get the quiche.

He maneuvered two perfect slices out, plating them and resting a sprig of rosemary next to each, and sighed. No, he’d have to tell Becca now, and she’d look it up on her stupid smartphone. He didn’t mind telling her, though. He liked to fuss about it, but there was no one he trusted more than her. He pushed back through the door to the dining room, to find Becca already bent over her phone.

“This is exactly what I mean, I don’t want to start staring at some stupid box every time I sit down,” Bill grumbled, setting her plate down in front of her.

“I’m checking work emails.”

“And that’s the last thing I want to do,” Bill finished. Work was for work hours, and they could call him if they really wanted anything. He didn’t want to volunteer to work more hours than necessary.

She set the phone down. “So, the art. I didn’t take you for the type.”

He hesitated. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

“Listen, I don’t want all the… questions. I’m going to give you a website, and you’re going to buy two paintings. One for me, and the other whichever you want.”

Becca paused with her fork half lifted. “I’ll do it, but I want you to try the phone.”

Bill’s appetite would evaporate in minutes at this rate. “Beck-“

“Just send me a picture of Big Fuckin’ Chicken a couple of times a week.” She skewered a flower with her fork. “Let’s start with that. Maybe I just want other ways I can talk to you.”

“So that pictures of my chicken can get put up on the cloud somewhere?” Really? This was crazy.

Becca started giggling and the flower shook on her fork. “Do you listen to yourself?”

“Fine. Whatever. I’ll send you chicken pictures.” All the fucking questions. He could just leave the phone at home and just send her chicken pictures to make her happy.

“Great.” She grinned, and it instantly annoyed Bill. “So how do I find this art?”

“I guess you can do it from your phone.” With any luck, she wouldn’t dig too deep.

Who was he kidding, of course she would. He’d have to explain that he felt better giving an artist money than he did paying him for his body. That was a thing, now. Not that there was any shame in either option, he had too much respect for Frank for that. But art was what Frank loved, and if something he loved could get him some time off… Well. Bill couldn’t explain it. “You can go to frankbrightman.com. No dashes or anything.” Bill started eating his salad, too stressed now to enjoy the tang of lemon. Becca challenged him, and now that he thought of it, Frank did, too. Why were the people he could tolerate prone to pushing his boundaries?

Becca picked up her phone, eating with one hand and typing with the other. She was such a savage sometimes. “These are good.” She paused. “Wait, shut the front door. This is the cock guy!”

Bill winced at that wording. “Yeah. I thought you might want something, you seemed to like the paintings.”

“These on the site are even better.” She squinted at it, pulling out a pair of reading glasses from her purse and putting them on. “How’d you find this?”

“Saw some paintings over at the wine shop. They had a flier. Saw it was the same signature.”

“Huh. Well done.” She nodded, eating as she scrolled.

Bill in the meantime preferred to actually eat and enjoy his salad, free of the distraction. At least, of that distraction. “He’s local. Seemed nice to do.”

Becca let out a choked laugh. “Bullshit. You don’t do anything to be nice.”

That stung, a little, even though it was accurate. “I made you dinner,” he muttered.

“Because you know me.” Her face lit up and she looked back to her phone, and Bill knew that he was in trouble. Her face lit up and she set her phone down. “He’s cute.”

“I guess.” Bill shrugged at stabbed at his salad. Maybe he was in the clear.

“So I just need to buy two paintings?”

“That’s it.”

“And you can’t do it yourself.”

It wasn’t even a proper question. “I don’t want it getting around.”

“I think you don’t want whoever this is to know that you fancy their art,” she noted, taking another bite of her salad.

“Just eat your fucking salad,” he muttered. “And get me the green, brown, and blue one on page two.”

By Bill’s estimation, the two original paintings would cover Frank for at least a couple of nights, although it was hard to know. But if it got him some reprieve with his ankle, Bill supposed it was fine.

“Ohhh there’s one in here with blue flowers!” She ate her salad as she scrolled. “I can’t believe you found this guy. And that you want to get art, of all things. You sure you don’t know him?”

She’d see through a lie, she always did. “I met him once or twice.”

“Knew it!” She cackled, then it died off. “Wait.” She flicked her thumb around on her phone, then pushed her lips together. She scribbled on her phone with her finger, then grinned. She held up her phone, where she had a picture of “Frank Brightman”. She had doodled a crude beard on his face. Even from the other side of the table, Bill could see how obvious it was. “Almond Joy is the cock painter?”

Bill put his hand down on the table, harder than he meant to. “Becca, come on,” he snapped. He had a name, for shit’s sake. And Bill was self aware enough to know that having that thought was an indication that he was already in this deeper than he meant to be. 

She froze and set her phone down. “This really means a lot to you.”

Her tone completely diffused him. He sipped at his wine, trying to compose his thoughts. What to tell her that didn’t give away too much about Frank? “He likes working at the club. The art, though,” he continued, gesturing with his wineglass, “that’s what he wants to be doing. He got an injury this week, it’s going to be hard for him to work. Supporting his art seemed better to give him a chance to take a night off.” He thought of the sense of peace that came over him while watching Frank draw.

“Oh, Billy.” Becca’s expression had turned serious, her teasing streak toned down now. “You actually like this guy.”

“I don’t like anyone.” He set his wineglass down. “Present company excluded.”

“Mmm.”

“Fine. I don’t mind spending time with him.” He put his hands flat down on the table. “I said it. Do you feel better?”

“Do you?”

Bill stopped in his tracks at the question. He didn’t want to talk about it, but this was Becca. Of everyone, anywhere, she’d understand. It didn’t make it easier to explain. Maybe it did feel a little better. “You know I’m bad with these things.”

“I do. But I think you’ve found yourself enjoying spending time with someone, and you don’t know what to do with that.”

“I’d rather learn about the stupid new phone than this.” Bill finished his salad and pulled his quiche towards him.

“That’s not intentional, although that’s a great point.” Becca lifted her wineglass then took a hefty sip. “Have you tried just asking him out?”

Bill narrowed his eyes. “Why would I? I hardly know anything about him.”

“Then just ask him about himself. He’ll probably tell you something. Don’t make me go over there and do it for you.”

“Fine, I’ll text you a fucking chicken picture every day.” He took a bite of the quiche, savoring the perfect texture. “I’m not good at listening. He’s not going to want to talk to me. I’m paying him for his time, it’s the only reason he talks to me.”

“But you know that he loves his art. He’s told you something. You’re a better listener than you think. Try asking some questions, see what happens.” She finished her salad and pulled the quiche towards her. She took the rosemary sprig and stuck it into the quiche, one of her usual fidgets. “The worst that happens is you’re a little more broke. It’s okay for you to get out and talk to people, Bill. It’s okay for you to find something that makes you smile.”

Bill let that sink in, turning it over in his mind. “Yeah. I guess.” He had far more worst case scenarios in his mind. Frank getting to know him at all and then deciding that he wanted nothing to do with Bill, once he found out that Bill had a secret basement and was worried about the potential collapse of society.

He thought of Frank, of his smile. What would Frank say when he found out someone had bought two of his paintings? Bill didn’t even have to find out, he didn’t even have to know. He didn’t want Frank to know that he was behind it, he just wanted him to have a reason to smile.

Bill pushed down the urge to smile, lest he give Becca something else to tease him about. “Let me eat then you can show me this phone.”

Becca grinned and he couldn’t help but get caught up in it.

“By the way, I just bought the paintings. I put them under Elena Kaplan, since he knows my first name, at least.”

Bill hadn’t even thought of that, which was alarming enough on it’s own. “Thanks.”  

After dinner, they sat at the table in the kitchen, Bill alternating between picking up his wine and picking up the phone. Becca showed him how to take pictures, most of which looked terrible. Washed out, crooked, blurry.

“You have to turn on more lights or keep it still,” Becca said, taking the phone from him and snapping a picture of his wineglass and handling it back.

The picture looked beautiful, balanced, the background blurred and the wineglass crisp and sharp. Bill pressed his lips together. It didn’t even seem fair that she could make a picture look that good. “You’re not going to get this good of pictures of chickens.”

“Blurry pictures are fine.” She grinned. “Come on, let me show you what else you can do with this phone.”

Bill resigned himself to the lesson and let Becca show him how to use this cursed piece of technology.

Chapter Text

The sound of his alarm startled Frank awake and he fumbled for the snooze button, groaning. The blackout curtains in his bedroom left little clue as to what time it was, but he knew he’d set the alarm for around 9 am. Long enough to get cleaned up, record the dreaded message for Amani before his ex texted him to ask about it, and then head off to meet Steve for lunch.

His ankle ached and he was glad he’d taken Thursday night off. Bill had been the only reason he’d been able to get through Wednesday, but now Friday had reared its’ ugly head, and with it another shift. He’d try to get assigned to table side tonight, where the dancing tended to be less intense. It would put his bills at risk, but on the flip side, he had enough in investments if he had to dig into it. He’d just rather not if he could help it, since it put him that much farther behind in the long run.

Thank God for Bill, though. He’d tipped enough to give Frank room to take a little time off, but he wasn’t sure if he could pull off another without dipping into his other accounts. He supposed that was better than potentially injuring himself, though. Maybe he’d do that, if it was unbearable after he started moving around.

His stomach grumbled and he heeded its’ call, rolling out of bed. He had to do the video before he did anything else, aside from getting showered and dressed.

He grabbed a scattering of clothes out of the dresser and dropped them on his bed, then went to take a shower. It hurt to stand on his ankle, but something about the warm shower soothed him, easing the pain slightly. It would be another day of patching it with Advil. He would have loved something stronger, but that would probably make it hard for him to think, much less drive, and he wasn’t going to take a chance with that. Maybe he’d eat a CBD gummy bear when he got back from work.

He loved a good hot shower, although in this apartment, he’d never got the water above decently warm. He missed having a decent water heater; this one left a lot to be desired.

Out of the shower he put on the clothes he’d left out, then went to his closet and picked out a dark blue shirt, one he remembered Amani appreciated. She’d straighten his tie, smiling, and say “you look so handsome, what are you doing with this son of mine?”

Now showered, clean, and dressed, Frank stared at himself in the mirror. He smiled, partially to reassure himself and partially to remind himself that he would need to smile for Amani’s sake. He would have to look as much he used to look as he could. It wouldn’t be perfect, as he still had the beard and he wasn’t about to shave it off just to make his ex happy. Amani might have trouble recognizing his face, but she’s recognize his voice. That would have to be good enough.

He fixed his hair, then went to get his phone. This would be the only way he’d do it, if it’s the first thing of the day. Otherwise, he’d wait all day until he felt like doing it, just to decide that he didn’t want to do it.

Fine. Enough internalizing. Frank pulled out his phone and opened the camera, switching it to video. He drew in a deep breath, staring at himself for a moment before he smiled and pushed record. “Hey Amani,” he greeted. A good start. Hard to find the words, but he pushed forward. “I hope you’re doing well. I miss your cooking, especially kibbe. I know I always told Salim he made the best kibbe, but yours is best. Don’t tell him at said that, I’ll never hear the end of it.” It pained him to pretend, that they weren’t divorced, but he didn’t know of any other day to ground her to him. He paused, fixing the image of her face in his mind. He found his smile becoming more comfortable, more genuine.  

“I’ve missed you. I’ve sent a painting along for you, and I’ll show you the room that I paint in now.” He carried his phone out to the living room where his paintings gathered, filling easels and wall space around the room. No sense to how they were arranged, but Frank liked it that way. It reminded him of the chaos of the world, of art.

He held up the phone so that she could see the paintings. Several of landscapes, of friends. No doubt Salim would assume the worst, but Amani would just appreciate it as good art. He lingered on a painting of himself from around the last time he’d seen Amani, as a reminder.

He turned the phone back to himself. “I’m keeping busy, and work is good. I’m eating healthy, lots of vegetables.” She’d always been on him about what he ate. “I’m thinking about you and I wish I could get over to see you. I’m helping my mom out a bit so I can’t travel, but I hope you enjoy the paintings and this video in my place.” He grinned. “I’ll be out here behaving myself.” He wanted to say thank you but worried it would feel out of context. “Ma’a salama, Amani. I hope my pronunciation is still decent. It’s from my heart.”

He stopped the recording and slumped, dropping down onto the couch and flinging his phone onto the cushion. “Well, that’s over, at least,” he muttered, leaning back on the couch. Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes and he wiped them away. He’d learned only a handful of Arabic words, and this was a goodbye that Amani had given him many times.

It seemed unfair, for Salim to put one more pain on him, and for him to not even be there to be of any comfort. Salim had someone, and Frank had what? Memories, scattered photos?

As soon as he thought it, though, he knew it wasn’t right. He had family that accepted him, which Salim had little of. A father that understood him, even if it had taken a lot of years of shit to get there, which was something that Salim would never have.

And Frank had maybe the thing that mattered the most. He had hope. He had a job he loved, time for art, friends and family. Even if his art had been not what he’d wanted, lately.

He sighed and sat up, adding the video to a message to Salim. He hovered his thumb over the send button, then pressed it. A weight lifted from his shoulders and he put his phone on silent so that he could deal with a reply when he was ready. He stood up, adjust the painting nearest to him on its’ easel. There was something about this one…

It looked different, now. More visceral, more colorful. He paused, then stepped back. Something had changed. His art looked different.  

The picture of Raj jumped out at him, with its oranges, it’s flow. The lines were perfect. He turned his attention to several of the other paintings, holding a couple up, moving them around, stepping back. He moved back by the couch and took in the full living room of color, of paint, of art. Art.

Beautiful, vibrant, living art. Maybe it wasn’t his art that had been bothering him.

Maybe it had been himself.

He sat back down on the couch, staring. Had something been weighing down on him that heavily? Had all of this? Had all it taken been to just… send one stupid video and close a chapter of his life?

What a terrible time to want to drop everything and paint. He felt giddy, alive. He grabbed his small new sketchbook and a box of pencils, setting them to the side. If he had a chance to draw while waiting for Steve, he’d take it.

Frank picked his phone back up and looked down at it. It was almost time to leave to meet Steve, and an unread text stared back at him. He opened it before he lost his nerve.

Thanks. She’ll love the part about the kibbe. I did learn from the best.

A second message arrived.

I’m really happy to hear that you’re doing well. You look good. Happy. Hope it stays that way.

Frank thought about how to reply. Once he would have bit back something petty like “no thanks to you.” Those weren’t the words that came to him, now. Thanks. Take care.

It felt like it didn’t even begin to cover what he was thinking, but he didn’t want to open the door any more than he had to. Not when he had so much more going on.

Getting up, he snapped a picture of the pictures in the living room, to look at later, to see if he still felt the same when he wasn’t riding the high of moving on. He’d bounce it past Steve and see what he thought.

Frank got a table for two at their usual place, Don Taco. A simple name, but he could get half of a roasted pineapple filled with pork there, and they had a salsa bar that couldn’t be beat. Ample parking, and Frank wouldn’t have to walk far on his ankle. He’d need to conserve himself for work.

He pulled out his sketchbook and flipped through the pages. Mostly Bill. A lot of Bill, in fact, and the thought made him warm inside in a way that was hard to describe. Something about his honesty, in the way that he just didn’t sugarcoat things. In the intensity of his eyes, his expressions, his eyebrows. The way he brushed his hair out of his face, of course. The lines of his shoulders, the curves of his legs.

Customer. He’s a customer.

A customer that Frank had wanted to kiss, had stood there hoping that Bill would kiss him, and felt a crush of disappointment when he didn’t.

But did it hurt to indulge just a little? It felt like a palette cleanser for his soul after what he’d just dealt with, with Salim and the realization of his art, and he channeled that energy into a new blank page. He started to sketch a picture of Bill, holding a drink in the club, looking down and away. The way he was when Frank first met him.

“Do you go anywhere without a sketchbook?” Steve asked.

Frank knocked the sketchbook shut, not wanting even Steve to see what he drew. Frank told himself it was stripper’s code of privacy but in reality, he felt like right now, Bill was something that was just between him and Bill. He supposed that was code of privacy, in its way, but somehow this felt more personal.  

“Yes. Work, sometimes.” He thought of all of the sketches of Bill he’d made on Wednesday night. “Sometimes,” he repeated.

“I’m sure you can find all kinds of things to draw at work.” Steve grinned, sitting down across from Frank. He started eating the chips that Frank had neglected, heaping one with salsa and eating it. “So it sounds like we’ve both got some news.”

“Yours first. I have less news and more general… shit.” Sketchbook now closed, he could touch food with reckless abandon. He plucked a chip out of the bowl and dipped it in the salsa, crunching it between his teeth. Just the right balance of heat and flavor.

“Are you sure? My news might be a hard act to follow.” He didn’t wait for Frank’s reply. “Gabby and I bought the house we were looking at in Lincoln!”

“Aw really? I have to follow that? Congrats!” Frank held up a fist and Steve bumped it. “When do you move in?”

“It’s going to take a few weeks to get everything together.” Steve chuckled. “It turns out I’m moving in next to someone from work, which is probably going to be weird.”

“Why is that weird? It sounds like a great carpool.” Frank picked up another chip with salsa and bit into it.

Steve shook his head. “Oh, you’re going to love this one. I told him I used to be a stripper.”

Frank choked on his corn chip and reached for his glass of water, coughing furiously to clear the angled menace from his throat. He sipped at his water, trying to suppress the cough. “Why would you even do that?”

“Hey, it’s better than him finding my OnlyFans page! I ran into him at The Cave last month, and he’s been avoiding me ever since. I think he thought I was judging him or something. I figured I’d just let him know that I was just there to support friends, former coworkers.” Steve flagged down the waiter and ordered pineapple Jaritos.

“How’d he take it?”

“Well enough. I think we’ve come to a mutual understanding that we’re keeping each other’s secrets.”

“Except you just ratted him out!” Frank laughed.

“You don’t even know the guy, you can’t tell his secrets.” Steve pulled the menu towards him and started reviewing it.

Frank already knew he’d get the piña al pastor, so he didn’t bother looking at the menu. “I accidentally told a customer my name recently during a private dance, if that helps.”

“That’s a newb move, Frank.”

“It’s a long story.” Frank tried to figure out how much to say. How to explain Bill to someone else when he couldn’t explain Bill to himself? I met a guy at work and he’s brooding and antisocial and I’m completely fucking fascinated? “I guess his sister’s autocorrect kept changing my name to Almond. He was having a hard time keeping it together, asked if I had another name. I gave him the first one that came to my head.”

“You could have made anything up.” Steve chuckled. “You could have said Steve!”

“Well, yeah! I know that now.” Frank shrugged. “He’s a good guy. I don’t think he’ll say anything. Kind of quiet, reserved.”

Steve’s beverage arrived, then they put in their food order. Steve held up his drink. “Here’s to quiet and reserved guys that hopefully keep our secrets, then.”

Frank clinked his glass of water against Steve’s glass. “It’s the quiet ones, isn’t it?”

“You know it.” Steve smirked.

“Speaking of the quiet ones.” Frank sighed.

“Ohhh no. I know that sigh.”

“Yeah, same shit, new year.” It seemed like a good idea to change the subject before Frank blurted out something about Bill that he shouldn’t. “Salim called me. Wanted a painting of him for his mother. Sounds like she’s not doing well, he wanted me to record a video for her.”

“But you’re not doing that.”

Steve sounded so sure and Frank hated it. “Too late. I sent it before coming over here.”

“Let it go.”

“Oh, I have. But he says she’s forgetting people. She remembers me. It’s one last thing. And it wasn’t so bad. I mean, it was sad. But it’s kind of freeing to just close that door. One less painting of him to sit in storage and deal with later.” Frank thought about how his art looked after he’d sent the video. “I think it’s what I needed to do. Everything feels a bit brighter with it all behind me? If that makes sense.”

Steve nodded as their food arrived. “I think so.”

“It’s a good time to move on.”

“It’s past that, but at least it’s happening. So, how’s the job going?”

Frank didn’t mind the change in topic away from Salim. “It’s fine. It’s pretty good, actually.” Frank thought about the financial problems that the club was having, but pushed the thought of talking about them away. The last thing he needed was that getting back to their dads and one of them letting something slip. “Our dads still come into the club once in a while. I’ve also managed to hit my head on a customer, and I spent Wednesday night just sketching the same customer.” He left out the part where the customer left without the sketch that Frank had tried to give him. Frank left out a lot, in fact.

Steve poured salsa onto his tacos. “Instead of dancing? And how do you hit your head on a customer?” He started to eat.

“It was just a dumb thing, he dropped his phone and we both went to grab it at the same time. Bashed our heads together.” It felt even more stupid out loud.

“Seriously?” Steve’s grin looked mischievous. “How many times have you seen him?”

“At the club, three. Danced for him twice, though. Both times went off the rails. Wednesday my ankle was acting up. This guy saw my limp, wanted to pay me to sit down.” Frank felt his face flush and he ignored it, hoping that the restaurant’s lighting would obscure it.

“Oh, really?” Steve looked strangely smug. “Sounds like this one might like you. Is this the same person you told your name to?”

“Maybe.” Frank pulled out a chip and regarded it.

Steve leaned back in his seat. “You like him knowing your name.”

“What?” Frank snorted, mashing the chip into the dwindling salsa bowl. “No, I’m horrified.”

“I think you like this guy.”

Frank stared at his stepbrother. “He’s a customer, you know the rules.”

“You’re not denying it.”

“Does it matter?” Frank shook his head. “I’m not ready for anything else except work and art.” Maybe he’d take a little more than that, but he sure wasn’t going to go looking for it. He had no reason to look for it, not right now.

“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t consider it. But I do get it. I have my share of I definitely didn’t want to get in a relationship. I didn’t even want to date Gabby, at first.”

“Yeah, well, Josh would make me want to swear of dating, too.” Frank grinned.

“He was a beautiful, tragic mess.” Steve winked, wiping his hands off on a napkin. “Speaking of, how is the art going?”

“Oh, ow, that hurts.” This was their dynamic, though. He was relieved to not talk about work, though, lest he let out an detail about the club that he shouldn’t. Without a doubt, as soon as Steve heard, their dads would also hear, and Frank certainly didn’t want to be the source of that leak.  

He unlocked his phone and pulled up the picture of the living room filled with art, regarding it. “I wanted to run something past you. I’ve been feeling like my art isn’t all that great, lately. It’s felt uninspired.”

Steve let out of huff of air. “Your art has been amazing.”

“That’s the thing.” He held the phone up for Steve to look. “It’s looked like shit to me. For months. And now it looks completely different. Everything looks the way I wanted it to!”

Steve took the phone from him and regarded the picture. “I haven’t seen most of these. You’ve been busy.” He pinched in on the picture. “Why would you think these weren’t good? There’s a couple in here that are the best I’ve seen.”

“I don’t know.” He hadn’t been able to put his finger on it for months. “It’s like I’m just swimming in circles.”

“The art is fine. It’s your mindset that seems to be the thing. Maybe you’re thinking too hard about the possibility of actually doing an art show.”

Frank paused. He’d forgotten all about the show he’d signed up for. His doubts came rushing back and he pulled the phone back towards him. “Oh shit. I was so distracted that I didn’t even think about the show.”

“Then that’s it. You’re putting too much pressure on yourself.”

Frank started laughing. “Seriously? That’s it? That’s your words of wisdom?”

“It is. Think about it, and text me if I’m wrong. Or if I’m right.” Steve grinned, tucking into his tacos in earnest.

Frank finally let himself dig into his lunch, mussing on what Steve had said. He could be right. They ate and joked, and Steve paid the tab. “My treat. You can owe me when you sell a painting.”

“Deal. Oh hey, while I’m here, I’m running low on business cards. Do you still have some?”

“I do! In my desk, in fact. Want to come up to the office?” Steve stood, and Frank picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Assuming your ankle can handle it.”

Frank chuckled. “I’m injured, not dead. It’s a block, I think I can manage.”

They left the restaurant and headed back to Steve’s office, taking the elevator up to the 8^th floor where the engineering firm’s offices were. Steve secured him a visitor badge and guided him into the office.

As they passed the receptionist, Frank’s phone dinged and he pulled it out of his pocket. A text from his mother.

Two of your paintings sold! I’m forwarding you the receipt.

“Oh shit!” He reached out and put a hand on Steve’s arm to stop him. “Two paintings sold! Mom’s sending the details.” He pulled up his email and waited for the receipt, feeling giddy and impatient.

“For real? That’s some great timing!” Steve paused and waited across from Frank.

The mail came in, and Frank looked over the details. Two paintings, originals: The Forest Acute and Indigo Flourishing. “I think I can take the night off.”

“Okay, that’s the coolest thing I’ve heard all day.” Steve gestured at him. “Come on, tell me about it on the way to my desk.”

Steve led him through a maze of hallways and desks. They passed through a doorway and Steve started laughing. “So you sold two paintings, and you’re taking the night off? The night you should have been taking off for that injury?”

“You know how it is. No sick time.”

“If buying a painting was all it took to get you to take time off, I’d stop taking them for free.”

“Someone beat you to that idea.” He reviewed the receipt. The paintings were set for delivery, but to a fairly local address. “Local.”

“Oh really? That’s interesting.” Steve continued through towards his desk, then came to a stop.

Frank ran into him and almost dropped his phone. “Steve, really?” He looked up and realized that Steve had stopped in order to avoid knocking over someone that had come from around a cubicle wall.

Frank focused on him and Bill stared back, startled, shoulders hunched up. His blue eyes were wide and Frank blinked, disoriented, suspended in the cubicle maze that surrounded them. His heart thudded in his chest as he took in all of Bill, in proper lighting, like two regular people just literally running into each other.

Suddenly, a lot of things made a lot more sense, while simultaneously making no sense. Bill worked with Frank’s stepbrother, and now Frank found himself running through everything he’d said at lunch. Had he left any hints to Steve? How could he cover up this before Steve noticed? Did Bill notice that Frank stared, too? Bill flicked his gaze away from Frank, breaking eye contact. 

Fuck. Now what?

Time to improvise. 

Chapter Text

Bill felt the pressure rising in his chest as he stared at Frank. He felt sick. What the hell was Frank doing at his work, and with Steve Jacoby, of all people?

Immediately on the heels of that thought was the obvious one, that they’d probably worked together at some point. It fit. But it still didn’t explain why Frank was here, right now, in a place that Bill considered his own turf. He ran through all of the rational thoughts and reasons, and a few of the irrational ones.

It occurred to him that he could just walk out of the section before anything got more awkward, but that would probably look weirder than standing his ground. He took in Frank’s clothing, a stray thought that Frank actually owned pants going through his head. A dark blue button up shirt that pulled color of his eyes the forefront. He looked good like this, just standing there.

Bill assumed that some people liked the way strippers dressed at the club, and while Bill didn’t mind it, this was far better in his opinion. What was harder to put a finger on is what made Frank so attractive like this, compared to other men that Bill had met. He could objectively say someone was attractive, but rarely that he was attracted to someone.

Bill started to draw in a breath to speak, but stopped when Frank looked over at Steve.

“Jeez, Steve, you can’t just go around knocking people over.” Frank rolled his eyes and stuck his hand out to Bill. “Since my brother is being rude. Hi, I’m Frank.”

“Stepbrother, I’m claiming no actual relation to you!” Steve called, still heading for his desk.  

“Go with it,” Frank said softly, his hand unwavering.

Bill nodded and cleared his throat. “He gets excited, I guess.” He reached out and took Frank’s hand. “Bill. Nice to uh, meet you.” Bill could tell his hand was sweaty, and he tried to push the thought aside. All he had to do was look normal.

“You, too.” Frank flashed a grin and held onto Bill’s hand a moment too long. Again.

Bill let go first and Frank withdrew his hand. He adjusted the bag over his shoulder, glancing back towards Steve’s desk. Bill could hear Steve opening a drawer and closing it.

“Give me a few to dig through my cabinet!” Steve called, poking his head up. “Hey Bill, could you show Frank where the coffee is while I dig through here?”

Bill squared his shoulders, a frustration bubbling up in him. He wasn’t here to entertain Steve’s guests, even very attractive ones. “I have work to do.”

“Come on, it’s Friday. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll come find you in a few.”

Bill sighed, looking from Steve’s desk back to Frank. Protesting would draw more attention than just doing it, and Frank’s smile encouraged him. “Follow me,” he muttered, pushing past Frank. No, he wasn’t ready for Frank to see him here, a place that was safe. Or had been safe.

“So what do you do here?” Frank asked, dropping into a stride next to him. He sounded so relaxed and Bill let his shoulders drop just a little.

No one knew that they knew each other, and no one had to. Right now, they were just two people. There was a freedom to that, but it still made Bill wary. Frank was Steve’s stepbrother. It put him on edge, not knowing if Steve knew that they knew each other.

No use in lying about it. “I’m an engineer. Same as Steve, just better.”

Frank laughed. “I won’t tell him you said that.”

“I don’t care if you do tell him.” They walked into an empty break room and Bill crossed the room, moving so that he could see anyone coming down the hall. “You actually want some coffee?”

“I’m good.” He rolled his shoulders back and Bill couldn’t look away from the motion. “I’m low on business cards, and Steve said he has some at his desk.”

Bill grunted. “Feels like he’s stalling.” Steve only had three drawers at his desk, after all. What was he up to?

“I had nothing to do with that. He doesn’t know we know each other.”

Bill felt suspicious of that. “So why’d he send me off to find you coffee?”

Frank shrugged. “He either really can’t find those business cards, or he thought you needed a break.”

Bill pressed his lips together. This felt weird, all through it, but he appreciated that Frank didn’t tell him he was being paranoid. He put a cup under the coffee maker and pressed the button to brew and dispense a perfectly portioned cup of coffee. At this rate, maybe the coffee would soothe his nerves. Or he’d spill it all over himself and he could leave.

Not that he necessarily wanted to leave. He didn’t mind standing here next to Frank, just two people in a break room. There was a safety in knowing he had some control over the situation. He looked down at Frank’s bag, recognizing it as the one from the club the week before. “That your sketchbook?”

Frank nodded, patting it. His smile persisted. “It is. I have all of the sketches I’ve done recently in here.”

Bill drew in a breath, the sound of the coffee machine forcing him to raise his voice. “All of them?”

Frank’s smile broadened. “Even the forgotten ones.”

“Oh.” The coffee stopped and Bill turned to remove it. He tried to find a coy way to say what he was thinking. “Sounds careless, to forget something like that.”

“Do you think someone who forgets a gift just got startled, or didn’t want the gift?”

Bill sipped at the coffee, even though it was too hot. Is this what flirting felt like? It was fucking awkward, kind of awful, really. “Listen, I’m kind of shit at this.” He looked around, making sure that no one was coming. “Can I get it from you later? Not here.” He couldn’t find the words to explain how much it meant that the sketch was a representation of one of very few times that Bill felt truly seen.

“I’ll get it to you.” Frank’s demeanor lost an edge of its confidence. “It would mean a lot. For you to have it.”

The quaver of uncertainty in Frank’s voice ate at Bill and he tried to overcome it with politeness. “Ok. That’d be really nice.” Bill looked around, not sure what he was looking for but definitely not finding it. “Do you want something else to drink? Water or…? Not much here.” He shook a half empty box of tea.

“Despite Steve, you don’t actually have to find me a drink.” Frank leaned against the counter. “I’m not really good at this, either. Sort of forget sometimes how to just be me.”

Bill looked past the edge of his coffee cup to the way Frank’s legs looked in jeans. “This is you now, then?”

“Yeah. I never can carry it outside of the club.” Frank let out a huff of breath. “Are you disappointed?”

“No.” Bill stared down into his coffee, then back up to Frank’s face.

A blush reddened Frank’s cheeks and he looked away. “That’s good.” He looked back to Bill. “It’s nice just having a normal conversation. I mean, all things considered.”

Bill felt like he didn’t know how to have any conversation that wasn’t awkward. He watched Frank’s fingers curling around the strap of his bag.

Now Bill was sure that Steve was stalling. “So, uh, how’s the ankle?”

Frank shifted his weight to his other foot and rolled his foot in a circle, then flinched. “I’m walking. Which is something.”

A pang of guilt shot through Bill and he moved towards a chair, gesturing at Frank. “Do you want to sit?”

Frank nodded. “Maybe a good idea.”

They sat down across a small table from each other, and Frank set his bag on the table.

“So, it still hurts,” Frank continued. “I walked about a block to here, and it’s sore. But at this point, nothing rest and ice can’t solve.”

“When do you have a day off?” Bill knew he was fishing and he didn’t care.

Frank grinned. “I’m not going to work until next week. Someone bought two of my paintings.” Frank’s smile was infectious but Bill resisted the urge to smile lest he show his hand. “I’m definitely taking tonight off, and likely tomorrow. I’ll use the time to get some painting in, probably.”

Bill forced in a breath and tried to look casual as he drank his coffee. He really didn’t want Frank to realize that he’d been behind that, it felt too much like buying Frank’s time. Which he’d done quite enough of, at least for now. “Glad to hear it.”

“I’d kind of forgotten that my art is worth it.” He leaned back in his chair. “Honestly, it’s been a weird day. Shit with my ex. I didn’t get to tell you before, but he wanted me to record a video for his dying mother. Which is fine. But it was just a lot of things to dredge up. And then I went out to the living room and looked at the all the paintings sitting around, and I realized they’re actually good. Which is something I’d lost sight of. And to sell two… it feels like it drove the point home. That I’m on the right track.”

Bill wondered what Frank’s living room looked like. Guilt rushed through him that Frank didn’t know he’d bought the paintings. “Why are you telling me this?”

Frank looked away. “I can stop.”

“No.” Bill struggled with the right words, because the last thing he wanted was for Frank to stop. “That’s not what I said. It’s a real question. Why me?”

“I feel like I trust you.” Frank chuckled and looked back to Bill, his face filled with a softness that Bill couldn’t parse. “I like you.”

Bill looked around and then down at his coffee again. His spine felt stuck in a line. He wished they’d been having this conversation somewhere else, anywhere else. “I’m not even paying you to say that.”

“I know.” Frank tapped the table, presumably to get Bill’s attention. “That’s the point. I can be honest.” Frank shook his head.  

Now Bill really didn’t know how to interpret any of that, but sitting in the work break room didn’t seem like the place to figure it out. The constant feeling that someone was going to walk into the room was pressing down on him, and with every minute that passed, he became that much more aware the potential of getting caught. He tried to find a polite way to change the subject.

“There you two are!” Steve declared, peering into the room.

“We’re right where you told us to be,” Bill snapped.

“Damn, was he that bad of company?” Steve asked.

Jesus. This is why he avoided social interaction, there was no right way to do it and there’s too many chances to get stuck in the middle of two bad choices. “That’s not the point.”

Steve held out the business cards to Frank, who tucked them in his bag. Bill forced himself to not watch his fingers curling around the little box.

“Come on, Steve. I’m sure Bill’s busy.” Frank smiled at Bill. “I appreciate you taking the time to hang out with your annoying coworker’s stepbrother.” He stood, holding out his hand to shake again. “It was nice to meet you.”

The handshake again. Bill felt very conscious of Steve still in the room as he stood. He took Frank’s hand and shook it firmly, professionally. “Yeah, no problem.” Just before he let go, he brushed his fingers along Frank’s wrist, where Steve couldn’t see. Words were difficult, but maybe it would convey something that words couldn’t.

He watched the edges of Frank’s mouth curl into a smile as Bill pulled his hand away. “Have a great weekend!” Frank said.

“You, too.” Bill wanted to tell him to enjoy his time off, but that cracked open another egg. “I’m headed off for the day, going to finish working from home.”

“Maybe you could just walk Frank out in that case?” Steve jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I have a couple of people I need to talk to before I’m out for the day. It’s cool if not.”

Bill opened his mouth to say no, but then he made eye contact with Frank, who grinned at him and nodded, just a little. Instead Bill sighed. “Yeah. I’m headed that way anyway. I just need to go pack my stuff.” He drank down the last of the coffee and threw the cup away. “I’ll be right back.”

He retreated from the room and threaded his way through the maze back to his desk. He gathered up the two phones, his laptop, and anything else he needed, then headed back to the break room. Steve smiled and left, sipping at a cup of coffee, and Bill looked to Frank. “Ready?”

Frank nodded, and they walked to the receptionist’s desk where Frank dropped off his temporary badge. Bill glanced down at his own badge, taking it off as they exited into the corridor and putting it in his pocket. Thankfully, the firm didn’t put their last names on any of them.

Frank followed him, not speaking, until they got into the elevator. Then, Frank leaned against the wall. “Sorry about that. The whole thing with Steve.”

“Is he always like that?”

“Pretty much.” Frank winced. “I’m parked up on the street level, about a block down. If you can get me to the lobby, I’m good.”

“I can drop you off,” Bill offered. “If you wanted to leave anything in my truck.”

Frank chuckled. “Sounds good. Subtle.”

“Aside from the part where you get in my truck, I guess.”

The elevator reached the parking garage level that Bill had pressed, and they stepped out into the elevator lobby. Frank moved faster and opened the door for Bill, holding it to let him through.

“Truck’s over here,” Bill indicated, glancing back to see if Frank was following. He unlocked the passenger door and opened it for Frank, then went around to the other side and got in on the driver’s side. He threw his backpack in the back seat, then leaned back. “Listen, that was all kind of weird back there.”

“What with us hasn’t been a little weird?” Frank opened his bag and pulled out a plain office envelope. He handed it over to Bill. “I put it in here to keep it safe.”

Bill stared down at the envelope, taking it with all the reverence it was due. He wanted to look at it, but what if it wasn’t what he remembered? What if his reaction disappointed Frank? Bill didn’t know how to react to someone giving him a gift (he feared the day Becca and Frank had a real conversation together) and he didn’t want to ruin it by reacting wrong. He set it carefully on the seat behind him, then put the key in the ignition. “Thanks.” He pulled the two phones out of his pocket and dumped them in the center console.

“Did you get a new phone?” Frank asked, pulling on his seatbelt and peering down.

Frank looked so at home, here, like he belonged here in Bill’s truck. His long legs stretched out and he settled into his seat like he was supposed to be right there.

“Yeah, my sister got it for me.”

“So you’ve entered modern times and can now text painlessly?” Frank teased.

“It’s not painless,” Bill muttered.

“I can help with that.” Frank’s fingers moved over the surface of his bag, restless. “I meant what I said. I really enjoy being around you. I’m sorry if Steve…” Frank let out a soft huff of air. “Are you okay? Do you need me to talk to him?”

“No, he won’t say shit.” Bill put his hand to the key to turn on the truck, but stopped, dropping his hand back down.

“But this has changed something. I can see it. You’re guarded again.”

“What am I supposed to be?” Bill snapped, harder than he meant to. “I just want to be left alone, on my own time, and I don’t want to worry what someone at work thinks of me, or what you think of me.”

“Bill.” Frank held out a hand. Not to shake this time, but something else. Something personal.

Bill swallowed. He had to make a decision. If he shut this down here, now…

Reaching out, Bill placed his hand in Frank’s, closing his eyes. Frank’s thumb ran over his knuckles and Bill’s breath hitched. Fuck Steve Jacoby for making him feel worse about everything.

But something nagged at Bill, that feeling that it was him that was broken, and everyone else just shined a light on his own failings.

“Someday I’ll get you to talk to me. About you. Because I’d like to know, if you’d like to tell me.”

Bill wanted to tell him how he felt broken, how he’d never managed to connect to other people, that he just felt confused and scared that he felt this pull towards Frank, a thing he’d never felt before. He had no words for it, for the way his heart slammed in it’s bone cage, bruising itself, bruising Bill. It hurt, and he couldn’t explain. “Okay,” he said instead.

“Okay.” Frank gestured with a hand, towards the sketch in the back. “Full disclosure. I wrote my phone number on a piece of paper and I put it in the envelope.”

“Why? Are you allowed to text customers?”

“We’re encouraged to, actually.”

“So it’s something you’d do with anyone?” A hum of disappointment ran through Bill. Maybe this wasn’t something special about him after all. Which made sense. Who wanted to text a paranoid, eccentric guy with a secret bunker under his house? Probably someone that didn’t know what they were getting into.

“Not really. Just because I can doesn’t mean I do. It’s just you.” Frank seemed to hesitate. “I trust you.”

“Oh.” Bill sat a little straighter. “I don’t text.”

“I can teach you. I can send myself a text from your phone. If that’s okay. I… fuck.” Frank shook his head, then set his head against the headrest. “I’m sorry. I wrote the number down so you could say no-“

“It’s okay.” Bill pushed his lips together. Fuck it. He picked up the new phone and handed it to Frank. “Add yourself to this thing. Send yourself a text.”

Frank took the phone from him and pressed some keys, handing it back to Bill. “There.”

Bill looked at the screen. The message that Frank sent to himself said I’m texting you but I’m me on Bill’s phone. Bill chuckled. “That’s a dumb message.”

“But you laughed.” Frank made a finger guns gesture at Bill. “Okay. I have the night off and I have paintings to do, and you still have work to do.”

The thought of Frank just sitting at home painting warmed Bill. Not that the thought of him working at the club didn’t, but it felt different. He should tell Frank about the paintings. 

No. He’d just let Frank enjoy the time off. What if he completely threw off whatever he’d discovered about his own art? What if he made some kind do assumption about Bill’s intentions? 

Instead he started the truck. “Just don’t send me anything weird. All that shit gets backed up somewhere.” He backed out of the space and saw Frank grinning.

He had no idea why Frank seemed interested in communicating with him. Every instinct he had screamed at him to walk away, to just let it go. Stop going to the club, stop down this path. Eventually Frank would learn all about him, everything would get more weird, and he’d still have Steve to deal with. It’s why Bill had no friends, no one except Becca ever understood him. Would Frank be any different?

“I can work with that. And I promise that I won’t tell Steve or anyone else about any of this.” Frank let out a small laugh and relaxed in his seat. “You already know I’m bad at lying.”

“You’re getting worse at it,” Bill grumbled, pulling out of the parking garage. He believed Frank, which pulled at him. He didn’t trust anyone. He didn’t want to trust anyone. But Frank worked his way into the cracks, like weeds in a walkway, and instead of pulling that weed, he let it grow, wanting to find out what it was. The feeling was unsettling, but the thought of cutting things off was worse. 

Frank directed him to the parking lot, and Bill pulled into the lot. The afternoon sun cast a speckled, leafy shadow of the tree overhead.

Frank unbuckled his seatbelt. “Thanks.” Frank reached out and put a hand on Bill’s shoulder, squeezing. “It’s really good seeing you.”

“You, too.”

And then Frank was gone, heading to his own car, and Bill let out a sigh, missing the feeling of his hand on his shoulder. Later, he’d probably obsess over all of the things he could have said, should have said.

He waited for Frank to get into his car, and then he left, heading home. However badly Bill had ruined social interaction, it didn’t seem to deter Frank.

Back at home, Bill walked into the living room and set down his bag, sitting on the couch with the envelope in his hands. He pulled in a breath and pulled out the sketch. He noticed that Frank had put extra time into it afterwards, fine tuning it. He’d have to find somewhere to put this. For now, he’d tuck it in the envelope and keep it safe.

He reached into the envelope and pulled out a business card with a post-it note on it. The note said “call me! No obligation.” A phone number was written under it. Bill looked under the post-it to review Frank’s business card, with the same information as the flier from the wine shop. Which meant that Frank had just given Bill his last name intentionally.

In all of Bill’s life, a guy had never given him his phone number. A couple of women, but Bill hadn’t ever followed up. Not like he’d given anyone many opportunities. Is this standard stripper stuff? Or was this something else entirely?

He didn’t know if he should be terrified or eager. He supposed he’d find out soon enough. He had no idea what text etiquette was, who should text next, or any of that. So he’d start with finishing his work day and go from there.

Chapter Text

Frank sat in his car, holding his phone in his hands. He chuckled at the stupid text he’d sent himself from Bill’s phone. Yes, it was a dumb text, but what was he going to say? First texts were the worst. He thought about a reply, then stopped. No, best to wait until later, when Bill wasn’t driving. While Bill struck him as the sort that would not pick up his phone while driving, he wasn’t about to tempt fate on that one.

He created a contact for Bill, pausing at his last name. He hadn’t gotten Bill’s last name. He wondered if he should ask, but determined that perhaps Bill still had some things he wanted to keep to himself. Besides, if he really wanted to know, he could ask Steve.

He hadn’t even made it out of the parking lot when his phone rang, and Frank thought for a moment wondering if it was Steve, or Bill managing to butt dial him. He looked down at the phone; of course it was Steve. He answered it on hands free as he pulled out of the parking lot. “Steve, I love you man but you just made my afternoon really weird.”

“It wasn’t my intent.” Steve laughed in that trademark robust Steve way. “Seriously. It wasn’t.”

That was suspicious. “So why did you drop me on your coworker?”

“I figured it’s good for both of you to talk to people outside of work, that you two might get along. But now I’m drawing the conclusion that you were maybe already getting along.”

“You know I can’t talk about that stuff.” Frank pulled out onto the street, shaking his head. God, this was right up there with the time Steve admitted that he thought Salim was hot. Probably worse.

“Yeah, I know. I’m not asking, either. I’m just observing that you two hit it off awfully quick for two people that ‘just met’.”

Was it that obvious? God. There was no doubt in Frank’s mind that Bill would be mortified by the whole thing. “Fine. Yes. It’s head bonk guy. Is it also ‘you told him you were a stripper’ guy?”

“He holds all our secrets.” Steve chuckled.

“Yeah, he does.” Frank sighed.

“For the record, you made my day weird, too. I found out you’re filling a sketchbook with pictures of Bill Kaplan!”

Frank mentally filed that last name away for later, to add to his contacts. “Ok, give me the deal on this guy, then.”

“Wicked smart. Brilliant engineer. Really quiet, bordering on antisocial.”

Frank pushed his lips together. “In the good way or the bad way?”

“He’s a decent guy, just no social skills. Pretty sure he lives alone. After I figured out he went to clubs, I was going to try to send him your direction but he wanted no part of my recommendations.”

“I wonder why, Steve? Would you trust a recommendation from you?”

“I mean, maybe?” Steve paused for a moment. “I have to get to my last meeting of the day, but I’ll catch you later?”

“Sure, yeah.” Frank waited for Steve to hang up, then he sighed, heading back home.

On the way there, he mussed over the whole thing in his head. He’d been certain that Bill would have bolted entirely after that, but instead he’d given Frank his number by texting him. On the flip side (hah), Bill still had the flip phone, so maybe this was a phone he didn’t care so much about.

Back at his apartment, he opened the blinds to give the plants (and himself) some extra light. It filtered through the windows and he eyed them, noticing that they really needed a good cleaning on the inside. He swiped a finger over the blinds and frowned at the dust that came away.

Had he been that absorbed with everything that he’d let these things go? He couldn’t paint with that hanging over him. He dropped a text to Dani that he was still injured and he was taking the next two nights off, then texted Tess to fill her in about the paintings and that he’d be staying home. He left out the part about Steve and Bill and everything else that happened.

The hardest part about most of his social circles being related to strip clubs meant that he didn’t have a lot of people he could talk to about customers. On the flip side, he didn’t mind keeping some of that to himself, like a little box of fancy chocolates that he didn’t have to share with anyone.

Dani texted back GOOD. I’ll see you when you’re not limping.

Lastly, Frank changed into an old t-shirt, carefully hanging his blue one back up. He hadn’t worn it long enough for it to need a wash, and he’d avoid the ironing that way. Not that he minded ironing shirts, but he could probably use his time on better things.

With all of those things out of the way, Frank went to the fridge and looked for something to drink. He had some beer, but he never liked to drink beer with painting. Sometimes wine, but he never found wines he liked enough to buy.

He poured himself a glass of iced tea, a habit he got from his mother, and poured it into his slightly beat up Boston Fire Department mug. He swung past the closet in the hallway to pick up a dust cloth, and set about to cleaning off the blinds, at least, and knocking the dust off of anything else that looked obvious. Something about opening up the blinds always made the dust more obvious, in ways that drove him crazy. After finishing, he folded the cloth up and set it on the table, then sat down at the couch, sipping at the tea while he looked at the message from himself.

He tapped his finger on the side of his phone, thinking. By this point, Bill was probably still working, but Frank didn’t want to just leave it at the message. He opened up Bill’s contact info and added his last name.

Bill Kaplan.

Frank smiled. It felt right.

He opened up the camera on his phone and snapped a picture of himself sipping out of the mug and looking off to the side. A couple of his plants could be seen in the background. A picture of him just being him, absolutely plain, not even a nice shirt. Hell, this one had a huge paint splotch near the neckline. He sent it off to Bill before he could think about it too hard, then followed it up with: I’m about to sit down to paint, any ideas?

While he waited for a reply, Frank got up and pulled out a small empty canvas, prepping it for the initial outline phase of whatever he was about to paint. He thought about painting Bill, but he felt like he needed something else today. Something to anchor him, for him to get close to.

He set down the tea and paced around the room, thinking as he gathered his paints and a palette and pressed his lips together, thinking.

His iPhone chimed. Good picture. I dont know whatyou should paint. Ducking phone.

Frank laughed. Do you want me to paint a ducking phone?

No. F ucking phone.

I’m not sure that’s much better, Frank teased.

He started to eye one of his plants. He’d painted most of them before, but this one was just about to bloom. He could picture the blooms, embellish them, warmed by the light, how it would feel when they burst forth in splashes of brilliant pink, a cascade of color.

He’d just started to arrange the colors he wanted when his phone chimed again. He looked down to see a slightly blurry picture of a fat brown chicken. Chicken was the only message that came with it.

She’s cute! You have chickens?

Yea eggs

Maybe I can come over for an omelet sometime? Frank sent the message, perhaps a bit forward. Then again, Frank didn’t know how to be someone that didn’t flirt a little. At least he could try to make it earnest. And asking for an omelet was definitely authentic Frank.

He studied the picture of the chicken while he waited. Huh. He’d painted stranger things, certainly.  He moved to his box of paints and started pulling out a different set of colors, placing the other ones away. He’d have to alter the angle a bit as Bill’s picture composition skills left a lot to be desired, but he’d worked with worse.

Frank was content to wait for Bill’s reply, aware that some people answered when they were ready, and he started mentally sketching out how the painting would look. He spread out each tube of paint, glancing at the smear of color on the top of each one. Grays, reds, browns, greens for a background. He added the initial set to a palette and shifted into focusing on the canvas and the colors. He plucked out a brush and smirked at his brain calling it “plucking”.

His phone buzzed and he glanced down at his phone, on the table next to his palette. Wear pants for omelet I mak good ones

Frank asked Siri to reply and narrated a message as he dipped his brush into the initial color he’d use to outline the basic structure. “Is that your way of saying you approve of my jeans?”

The answer came back much faster this time. Yes. A pause. You don’t have to replying busy. Another text. Reply if busy. Piece of shit phone

Frank kept narrating his replies as he painted, starting with broad strokes to establish the proportions. “Neither do you. You’re doing fine by the way.”

Thanks, bad at it

“I can show you sometime. Maybe next time you’re at the club.” Frank paused. “Siri, cancel.” No, he wasn’t going to bring up the club. He wanted to talk to Bill, as Frank. Two people, no club involved. “I‘ll show you some tricks sometime. Phone call is fine, too.”

Maybe

Frank smiled at that, then faltered. What was he even doing? He’d given himself a no customer rule for a good reason, and here he was casually flirting with a customer.

Customer, Jesus, like he wasn’t thinking of how Bill looked in his dark green button up shirt and slacks. Or what it would be like to kiss down his shoulder. Shit. Frank set down his paintbrush, sighing. He’d have to straighten this out, establish some boundaries. But part of him didn’t want to. Whatever was happening was progressing slowly, and Frank was okay with that. There were a lot of things he wasn’t ready for, either. Frank knew he’d have to work on detangling the lines that separated customer from friend from… whatever else he’d started thinking of about Bill.

Frank had to remind himself that he didn’t know what Bill’s history was, what he was struggling with. Many men he’d known had been closeted for so long that it took time to shift to not being in that space. Bill had some inkling of what he wanted, but he didn’t know how to look for it.

It would be so easy for Frank to just take the lead and show him. He’d been sure Bill had been thinking about kissing him at the club. All it would take was getting in a little closer. Frank could probably get him in in bed in a week, tops. But then what?

Frank picked up his paintbrush and kept working. No. No, he’d have to just be patient. Not everyone had the experience that Frank had, of his father being closeted for years. Of the eventual joy his father found in escaping the chains of having to hide who he was. Not that it happened quickly; he’d caused a lot of collateral damage along the way. Frank had gone whole spans not talking to his father, spans where his father had tried to force what he thought Frank should be onto Frank.

His hand moved the brush across the canvas, soothing him. Now he’d gotten too far into his thoughts, but he could do both at once. Or he hoped he still could.

“I’d like that. I can talk a lot, though.”

Its ok

The brush flowed over the canvas and Frank went with it, feeling the shape, and as he did, he let himself be somewhere else. Somewhere, this chicken lived, somewhere green, fed every day by a gruff, handsome man who didn’t know how to reach out beyond his own world.

Something filled Frank and he wasn’t able to put a finger on it. He remembered Steve saying that they were moving in next door and he winced. No, he’d have to be very careful, here. He didn’t want to introduce anything weird into their work, either. Or their situation as soon to be neighbors. He thought about telling Bill, if Steve didn’t. He’d give him a couple of days.

“How many chickens do you have?”

Another picture came in of a garden, light filtering through the trees. God, that looked beautiful. Frank pictured those greens, those touches of yellow, and started incorporating them into the painting.

A lot. Cheaper than buying eggs. Grow food here, too. Sorry I am slow, I have to fix this fucking thing

Frank’s ankle ached and he knew this would be the only painting he’d manage tonight. He put his phone on do not disturb so he could make progress for a few minutes. Bill didn’t seem impatient, and he definitely wasn’t as attached to his phone. Frank was surprised he got as far as he had, and by how much his texts were improving. That, or he was meticulously correcting them before sending now. You’re getting better. I’ll be back in a few, I’m going to finish a painting, he typed, then set his phone down.

The picture built itself in front of him, and Frank put himself into it, all the way down to Bill’s grumpy expression as he glared at his phone. A fat chicken, taken care of by someone who possibly preferred chickens to people. And yet who still took the time to talk to Frank.

The chicken came to life on the canvas, looking over her shoulder, perhaps waiting for food. Maybe hearing a sound.

Sometimes this is where the magic was, when Frank felt the painting, the simple needs of a chicken. It felt sort of right, to put himself in this creature’s place for a moment, to think about how it sounded to be there. How it felt. The other chickens nearby, warm at night.

He filled the painting in, then moved to the details. He normally didn’t paint this fast, but something spurred him on, some sense of being present. Grounded. Everything flitted out of his mind. The little details, finishing touches, flourishes of the light, the detail of the ground, the highlights on the feathers.

Finally he stepped back, and the warmth of the hen’s life backed away. He stretched, back to being present. He moved to sit back down on the couch, stretching out his leg and gulping down his now room temperature iced tea. He didn’t like looking immediately at a painting with a critical eye, not until he sat back and took a breath. When he felt ready, he looked up, taking in the details of it. He could feel the touch of chill that came with fall, the light on his face. This was what it felt like to create, to move into the space and fill it with color, with form, with purpose.

Yep. He definitely still had it.

He poked at his ankle and while it was a little sore, it would be fine if he didn’t stand on it. He snapped a picture of the painting and opened his text messages.

One from Bill: What are you painting?

One from his mother: I hope you’re taking care of that ankle. You’re still taking the night off, right?

To his mother, he dropped a message that he was indeed taking the night off. She texted back that he could come by later for dinner if he wanted. He told her he’d think about it. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to go out yet, and stop basking in the glow of finishing a painting.

He got up to adjust the angle of the painting, to maximize the gorgeous light coming through the window, and snapped a picture of it.

By this point, Bill was likely not working, so Frank dropped the picture into a message and added the same caption as Bill had. Chicken.

He grinned then sat back to wait for Bill’s response. 

Chapter Text

Becca’s phone rang not long after she got back to her apartment. She dove into her pocket to get to it, hoping it wasn’t another call from work. She answered it as she set down her bag. “Hello?”

“Hi! Is this Elena Kaplan?”

Uh oh. Well, at least she hadn’t answered the phone as Becca, which would have been harder to explain. “It is! What do you need?” She already had a feeling since the woman was asking for Elena and not Becca. Becca quickly organized her thoughts, assuming that whoever this was had some connection to a certain artist named Frank Brightman.

“I’m Dolores, the sales manager for Frank Brightman. I saw you purchased two paintings and requested delivery. It’s pretty expensive to ship, and you’re not very far from our distribution location. Are you sure you don’t want to pick them up?”

Oh, Bill would shit a whole pile of granite if anyone found out who she was. A thread of paranoia snuck in, that little thread that her and Bill shared, no doubt shared trauma from her illness and the protectiveness and paranoia of her parents. A paranoia he had embraced and she had whittled down. On the other hand, would they really even notice her out of anyone else? Clearly he’d been selling enough paintings that he has a distribution location, which did make her wonder why he also worked in a strip club. But she wasn’t about to ask his sales manager.

“It depends on when,” Becca said, flopping down onto her couch in the living room. “What’s your schedule look like?” She could always say that none of the times worked out, if it seemed like a bad idea.

“It’s pretty open. Tonight’s good, if you like banana bread. Free with every painting pickup.”

Becca laughed. “Seriously?”

“Not usually. But tonight is kind of special.” Dolores chuckled. “What time?”

What harm could it do? It was Frank that would recognize her, not his mother, and he would be at work on a Friday night. Just in case, she picked a time that would be definitely when he would be at work. “Would 7pm work? Or are you closed by then?”

“Not at all,” she assured. “I’m going to be here all day. Distribution isn’t anything fancy over here, I distribute out of my house. I’ve pulled the paintings for you and they’ll be here when you get here. Along with banana bread. Chocolate chips? Walnuts?”

“I have to pick?”

“I’ve got some with both. Come on by, I’ll save you some.” She gave Becca the address, which Becca wrote down on a small notepad on her table.

“Thanks! I’ll see you around 7.” Becca hung up and picked up the notepad, staring at it. Fuck it. Bill didn’t even have to know she was going over there, and she’d save him a good $50 in the process. She typed it into her maps app, and it was 23 minutes away. No problem, she could be there and back inside of an hour. Plenty of time to come home and eat her banana bread prize.

She set out a snack of nuts and cheese and nibbled at it, wishing she felt more hungry. Since chemo, a lot of foods didn’t hit the same any longer, and sometimes she didn’t feel like eating at all. Oh god. What if the banana bread didn’t taste right? That would be horrifying.

The cheese assortment included spicy cheeses, which were at least more interesting. For nuts, she liked walnuts and cashews, because the shapes felt interesting in her mouth. She probed along a bit of cashew stuck in her teeth, pushing it free with her tongue as she she picked up a magazine on the counter. She read most of her news on her phone, but there were times it felt nice to read something on paper. She had a subscription to The Smithsonian, which gave her something to flip through in these moments where she just wanted something to keep her from obsessing over the taste of food.

It wasn’t quite as good as the tacos she’d planned on making with some leftovers in the fridge, but it would hold her over until later. Eating anything was a win, so if all she ate was cheese, nuts, and banana bread, she’d call that coming out ahead.

She set out on a walk. Her walking endurance improved every week, but she couldn’t shake the frustration of how long it was taking her body to recover. She snapped photos as she went: neat looking plants, a painted rock, the way a vine snaked through an opening in the fence. Little moments, reminding her to appreciate what she had. Sometimes, cute little weeds. Weeds thrived in hostile conditions, managing to poke out from little cracks in sidewalks or between rocks. Becca figured that was a little like herself, and like Bill. Two twin little weeds that managed to thrive in weird ways.

She was alive, though. As she walked, she thought about everything that had brought her to her, all the time in chemo. And, oddly enough, how going to pick up these paintings brought everything full circle for her. She’d had chemo surrounded by the paintings of “F.B.”. She’d fought for her life, gazing at those paintings. The more she contemplated it, the more it fit to have one of them as hers. All the strange circumstances of her brother clearly liking the artist as more than an artist aside.

She could feel the weariness start to settle over her as she approached the apartment. The water of the shower washed away a fraction of her irritation and she let it. Bill would tell her at least she’s here, and he’d be right. She got out of the shower, wrapping herself in a towel, and staring into the mirror at her reflection. She remained a good twenty pounds short of where she wanted to be. All the more reason to eat all the banana bread, she figured.

She got dressed and hopped in her Jeep to drive over to the provided address. She put a blanket in the back seat in case she needed to pad the paintings for transport. As she drove, she thought through all the things she could say or couldn’t say. If anyone asked where she heard about Frank, she’d just say that she saw the painting at her doctor’s office, which was accurate. The easiest way to hide uncomfortable truths was to reach for easy truths.

Say as little as possible, don’t be weird, just get in and get out.

Simple, right?

As she pulled down the street, she looked over the assortment of cute houses that lined the street, mature landscaping. The house she was looking for was light blue with white trim, with a wraparound porch, from what she saw on Google. And more hydrangeas than she thought were possible to fit into one single yard.

She parked on the street, not wanting to block the driveway, and headed up the stairs to the house. The hydrangeas were more than she initially realized. She knew that the soil determined the color of the flowers, and so the wide variety of colors implied that someone worked very hard to ensure that the soil had enough variation to ensure that the flowers did, too. She paused to touch a beautiful dark blue one, with flowers that clustered up. It looked familiar. There had been more of these at the doctor’s office, too, paintings of hydrangeas.

The door opened and Becca straightened, startled. A woman with short blonde hair stood in the doorway. Definitely taller than Becca.

“Dolores?” Becca asked. She hadn’t expected her to be around Becca’s age. Or for her to be pretty, either.

“Oh. No, that’s my mother.”

A shorter woman entered the doorway, wiping her hands on a towel. “Good timing! I’m slicing up the bread now.”

This was not at all what Becca expected. This woman was older, old enough to be her mother, with long hair that had once been dark but now mixed with silver, braided into one long tail down her back.

Becca paused. The reason the hydrangea by the stairs looked familiar is that it was the same flowers from the painting. This is somewhere that Frank spent time.

Oh no. She may have made a mistake. This wasn’t a sales manager, at least, not just a sales manager. This looked like family.

As far as she could tell, she just stumbled into the family of Frank Brightman, aka Armond, aka Almond, aka The Cock Painter. Not that she was about to admit that.

She blinked. Okay, just play it cool. “Nice to meet you both.” She closed the gap and held out her hand to Dolores, and shook it. Then she looked to the other woman, repeating the gesture.

“Erika,” the woman greeted, wrapping her fingers around Becca’s hand.

Becca shook her hand, staring at her. “Uh, hi.” Oh, God, was she taking after Bill now? Stop, this was silly, there’s no way she should be standing there staring at her blue eyes. Becca let go, forcing her attention back to Dolores. “Thanks for reaching out about the paintings. I’m not adverse to saving a bit on shipping.”

“It’s not a problem. When it’s prints, we tend to ship since they’re a bit easier to pack up, but the originals are more difficult. And we don’t sell many of them. I’m so glad you picked these two up!” She nodded and gestured with a hand. “One of these is inspired by the hydrangea near the entry.”

“I noticed!” At least Becca’s enthusiasm was genuine. “It’s beautiful, by the way. Your garden is lovely.”

“Mom will go on about flowers for a while,” Erika warned. She glanced down at her watch. “I’ll be back.” She disappeared towards the back of the house, and Becca watched her go. Of course Frank’s sister would be pretty.

“Checking on her son. He’s tired and fell asleep, but we never know how long it’s going to last. May as well enjoy the peace while we have it,” Dolores added in her southern accent, stepping back from the door. “Come in for a bit! Unless you’re in a hurry?”

She should be in a hurry, but a glance into the house showed many more paintings, inviting lighting, and a stunning dollhouse that she’d love to get a closer look at. What would it hurt? Frank was at work, and they had no idea who she was. They probably had no idea who Bill was, either. Easy enough. “Sure, I’d love to.”

Within ten minutes, she found herself outside, sitting at a table under the gazebo. Erika sat a glass of iced tea down in front of her and dropped down in the chair across from her. “I’ll warn you, if you’re here past the next fifteen minutes, my mother will feed you.”

“You make it sound non-negotiable.”

“There’s no negotiation.” Erika tucked one leg up into the chair and held her tea.

“So is this a family business here?” Becca asked. She felt intensely curious after getting the light tour of the home. In the matter of minutes she’d been there, she learned that Dolores was married to Randy, who was her second husband. Erika referred to him as Randy, which lead Becca to think that it was most likely that he was not Erika’s father.

“A little. It’s just Mom handling things. Frank works a lot.”

Becca couldn’t help it. She had to ask. “Does he do something other than painting?”

“He does have a side job.” Erika looked away then back. “Long story. You could ask him, though.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” Becca said, shaking her head. “I was just curious. Your mom said you have a son? How old is he?”

“Four. And a terror.” A smile touched her lips.

Becca liked her smile, and she pushed that down. There’s no way in hell she could go down that line of thought. She wondered if Erika was younger than she looked and if she’d made a bad assumption. “Not like his mother?”

“No.” Erika sipped at her tea. “Clark is adopted. But he’s getting all of his uncle’s impulsiveness.”

“Bad influence?”

“Probably.” Erika shifted in her seat. “So where did you hear about Frank’s art?”

Finally, safe ground. At least partially, so long as she didn’t mention the giant cock. “I saw his art at my doctor’s office. Liked what I saw, so I went and looked him up. Does he make a lot of sales?”

Erika fidgeted, and Becca wondered if she’d asked something she shouldn’t have. “Not as many as he should.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s better than he thinks he is. He has a very unique process.” Erika’s phone dinged and she looked down and pushed her lips together. “Do you eat meat? Mom just invited you for dinner. Bacon wrapped meatloaf. It’s going to be hard to get away now.”

“I eat everything, but don’t want to impose,” Becca deferred, starting to stand. She should go home and make the neglected tacos. “I really should go.” The breeze and the garden were nice, but she didn’t want to outstay her welcome, as delicious as meatloaf sounded. In fact, it was maybe the first thing that sounded worth eating this week.

She couldn’t stay. What if the food tasted wrong? What if her stomach went sour? As if on cue, her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten a proper meal yet.

“It’s fine, really. I mean it, you should stay for a bit.” Erika gestured for her to sit, and Becca dropped back down into her chair. “If I’m honest, it’s nice to talk to an adult that’s not my mother.” She smiled. “It’s just me and Clark, so most days, I converse in chaos.”

Soft spoken but witty. “My brother would say the same about me. Chaos.” Becca made a silly face as she drank her tea and was rewarded with Erika’s light laughter. “Yeah, it’s nice for me, too. I work a lot, don’t get to talk to many people.” She didn’t want to explain how she’d had so much trouble reestablishing friendships after her last round of chemo.

From the direction of the house, Becca heard a boyish shriek. Erika sighed. “Speaking of chaos.”

Becca looked up towards the house and froze. Out on the porch was a little boy and a tall man, who hefted him up. “What does Clark Kenton do?”

“FLY!” The boy shrieked, and the man carried him into the yard, spinning him around.

Oh no. This was not good. This was not good.

“I should get going,” Becca deferred, setting her half-finished iced tea down.

Erika shook her head. “You dropped enough money on those paintings that you should meet the painter, if nothing else.” She waved in Armond’s direction.

Becca corrected herself. Frank. She hesitated a moment too long and then Frank was on top of them, with his small charge in tow. He walked with a slight limp. “So I hear you bought two paintings!” He looked away from Clark to Becca, and her stomach dropped as the recognition crossed his face. “Becca?”

Bill was going to strangle her.

Erika looked confused. “This is Elena.”

Frank shook his head, his hand still holding Clark’s. “I’m pretty sure she’s Becca.” He smirked. “Unless she has a twin.”

Oh, ow. She’d have to come up with something, and fast. “I have a twin brother. Does it count?” Wait, no, of course that didn’t count. “Elena is my middle name. I use it a lot. It’s just my brother that calls me Becca,” she lied.

Erika set her tea down and crossed her arms. “Sounds fake.”

“Agreed,” Frank added, his smile growing. Clark mobbed his leg and Frank tousled his hair, then the boy turned his huge green eyes to Becca. He grinned at her then dashed behind Frank’s legs, shy.

She waved to him as he peered out at her. He was adorable, there was no denying that.

“I think I should head back to the house and take the demon along.” Erika got to her feet, collecting her glass. “Mom will shit if dinner is awkward, so you’ve got about ten minutes to straighten it out.” She paused, locking eyes with Becca. “But it’s been… really nice talking to you.”

“Yeah.” Becca reminded herself to breathe as she stared at Erika. Come on. “I guess we’re having dinner.”

“Glad you’re staying, Becca called Elena,” Erika added, leaning down to pick up Clark. “Come on, feral child.”

He bared his teeth at her, then started laughing. They wandered back towards the house, and Becca watched her long legs as she left. She picked up her iced tea, staring into it. “So that happened.”

Frank dropped into the chair across from her, stretching his legs out. “Which part? The part where I find you in my back yard, the part where you’re having dinner, or the part where my sister couldn’t break eye contact with you?”

“What?” She tried to work out what to say to correct him. “No, we’re just hanging out.”

“You just got more words out of her than anyone except Clark does.” He rested his arms along the arms of the chair. Then he laughed. “What is even happening with you two? First I run into Bill at stepbrother’s work, and now-“

“Wait what?” That was new information.  

“My stepbrother, Steve. Apparently works with Bill.”

Becca groaned. She didn’t have to even ask who Steve was. She could do the math that this was fucking Steve. She held out her hand. “Maybe it’s time to start over. I’m Becca.”

He held out a hand to shake hers. “Frank.”

“Not Armond.” She forced down a laugh about almonds.

“Your autocorrect blew my cover,” he muttered. “Did he tell you that I gave him his name because he kept losing it about almonds?”

“No! He didn’t tell me anything, actually. He’s… good at keeping things to himself.” She chuckled, trying to relax. She shouldn’t be here, she felt like she’d crossed some line, but she’d come this far. “You’re probably feeling cursed by us at this point. Stuck in a Kaplan trap.”

He laughed. “It’s not like I’m trying to gnaw my own leg off or anything. But I’d love some explanation. Mom says you bought the two paintings.” He stretched and leaned forward, folding his hands on the mosaic tile table. “I’m trying to connect the dots.”

“I…” She sighed. Fuck it. “Saw the painting at the club, saw a painting at my doctor’s office, we realized it’s the same person. And I love art so I was thrilled to find the connection that the cock painter was the same artist behind…” She trailed off. This wasn’t where she was planning on going with this. “Well. I spend a lot of time in the doctor’s office.”

“The only doctor’s office I’ve sold anything to is an oncologist,” Frank noted.

Becca couldn’t shake the feeling that he was scrutinizing her, and she toyed with her glass. The ice sloshed in the cup. She could read between the lines. “Yeah. I’m recovering from leukemia.”

He reached across the table and put a hand on hers and she stared down at his hand, a warm contrast to the cold glass in her hands. “How are you?”

She swallowed against the lump in her throat. No one but Bill ever checked in on how she was doing. “Better. I mean, I’m in remission. But it was a lot. I had chemo surrounded by your art.” She recalled the paintings, vivid, alive, everything that she wasn’t in those moments. “And so I guess in a way, the more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea of having something that reminded me of the alive part of it all. I survived sitting under your paintings.”

“Oh.” Frank drew in a breath. “Okay. That I wasn’t expecting. I sort of don’t know what to say.”

“It’s okay.” She chuckled. “Bill doesn’t even really know. He usually doesn’t get things like the connection of art to life.” She considered pulling her hand back but instead leaned into it, putting her other hand on Frank’s. No wonder Bill liked him. He was charming. Since when did Bill fall for charming? “He saw your paintings at the wine shop. He wanted to buy a couple, and I was thrilled because of… well.”

Frank’s brows knit together. “Did you know that the owner of the shop is Steve’s wife?”

Becca groaned. “He’s going to hate this. And he’s going to hate that I’m here. I was supposed to do this anonymously. I thought you’d be working, maybe I could just slide in and get them. Did not plan on your mother. Or your sister.” Becca shrugged, taking back her hands to sip at her tea. He looked different in the light, less polished, more open. Actual clothing did wonders for him. 

“Thanks to your painting purchase, I’m not working tonight.” He held up a foot. “Your timing’s good, my ankle is acting up. I took a few days off.”

Becca winced. Well, that explained a lot. “I think if I had good timing, I would have successfully avoided you.” She finished her tea and set the cup down, regarding Frank. He wore jeans and a t-shirt, his hair a little messy.

Her phone buzzed and she ignored it. The buzz happened again and she paused. “Hang on, I have to check this.”

She pulled out her phone to find two text messages from Bill. She put on her reading glasses. The first text was a painting of a chicken. The second said he painted my chicken what do I do

She stared from the phone up to Frank. “You painted Big Fucking Chicken?”

“Did I do what?” Frank started laughing. “Is that her name?”

“It’s what I call her.” She looked back down at her phone and composed a text back. Maybe try saying thank you?

“Does he like it?” Frank asked, looking anxious.

Becca set her phone down in her lap. “Wait. You paint a giant abstract cock, and you’re nervous about a chicken?”

“I’m not nervous! It’s just a silly thing to paint. An attractive guy texts me a chicken, I paint the chicken, that’s-“

“You are nervous!” Becca crowed. Got you. What would she even tell Bill about this? Frank liked Bill, at least enough to be nervous. So why were they still just hanging out “professionally”? 

“Don’t you dare tell him any of that,” Frank warned. “I will uninvite you to dinner. I’ll eat your meatloaf.”

“And tell your mom that you think my brother is attractive and you painted his chicken?”

“At least he sent me a picture of a hen!” Frank shot back.

Becca stopped, her brain doing the math. Oh. “And not a cock?”

They both dissolved into helpless laughter, and Becca gasped for air. “Damnit. Your humor is wasted on my brother.”

Frank chuckled. “Is it though? He’s clearly putting up with you.”

“Hah hah hah. Yeah, there’s that.” Becca finally managed to take in a breath, then fished an ice cube out of her glass and popped it in her mouth. She wanted to tell Frank that her brother had never been on a real date. That he didn’t know how to read social cues. That he had a heart, even though he hid it, and that Becca would stab Frank if he broke it. But none of it fit, and all of it seemed none of her business.

Frank seemed to be a nice guy, but Becca had no way to know for sure. Was her brother on the road to hurt? Or was this the start of something that would finally break through that series of walls he’d crafted over the years?

But god, she got it now, at least in part. If this was the person Bill went out of his way to meet with… well. She hoped that Frank wasn’t leading him on, but she also didn’t want to ask. In her way, she was afraid to know, too.  

Becca typed another text to her brother. I love it. Maybe I can buy that one next.

A moment later another text came in. Its my chicken

Do you like it?

A pause. Yes.

Then just tell him. Becca let out a huge sigh and finished her iced tea. She chuckled. “I know my brother is frustrating like that. Trust me, I get it. But he’s… he’s worth the effort.”

Frank’s phone chimed and he picked it up. A smile bloomed over his face and he looked up at Becca. “What did you say?” His thumbs moved over the phone as he composed a text.

“Nothing except telling him to just stop texting me.”

A blush crept over Frank’s face. “Okay.” He looked past Becca to the house. “Shit, Mom’s waving us in.”

“Still stealing the meatloaf from me?”

Frank laughed. “No. Erika will cut me.” He got to his feet, gesturing to her. “Come on. Let’s go eat before Clark makes us come eat.”

Becca chuckled and got to her feet, collecting her glass. She didn’t know what to make of this, not yet. But she liked this guy that her brother kept in touch with.

“For what it’s worth,” Frank murmured, snagging the empty glass from her and dumping the ice into the grass, “your brother is some of the best company I’ve had.”

Becca smiled, glancing over at him. “He’s not going to love this. Be ready for that.”

“Yeah. I’m a pretty awful liar.” Frank sighed.

“I’ll take the hit for this one. This was my decision, although trying to convince my brother I fell into a banana bread trap feels like an insufficient excuse.”

After all, she was in quite enough trouble as is, and there was going to be no easy way to explain this one to Bill. No doubt about it, Becca had fucked up.

But in the end, she wasn’t sure that was such a bad thing.

A bright side to the Brightmans.

How stupid did that sound?

Frank’s laughter echoed through the hallway as he hefted Clark up, and Erika looked on proudly.

No, definitely, this was not the trap she should have fallen into. On the flip side… well. Frank could be exactly what Bill needed. A nice family. Good people. They clearly both liked each other, but Becca was Bill’s twin sister. She knew him better than anyone, and pushing would only make him back away. No, Becca would have to let this play out, as hard as that would be.

She’d find a way to talk to Bill about it. She had no idea where these two were going with anything, if this was going to remain professional or not, but she’d be damned if she ruined it. Her eyes met Erika’s, and she smiled. Becca smiled back. If nothing else, she got to eat bacon wrapped meatloaf with a pretty woman, regardless of what that meant. There were worse ways to end a week. At least until Bill found out.

Chapter Text

“You what?” Bill demanded, feeling like he had to sweep his jaw up off the floor. He couldn’t believe this, the nerve of his sister to just overstep a line, the one line he’d set out. He’d asked one thing of Becca – be subtle. It was the whole reason why he’d asked her to order the pictures, because he specifically didn’t want Frank to know that Bill had a part in it. He didn’t want Frank to think he owed Bill anything.

“It was an accident!” she protested, holding her hands up. “His mother tempted me with banana bread. I thought-“

“No, you didn’t think!” This was too much. Of all the people Bill expected to get something like this right, he thought it would be Becca. Just proof that he couldn’t trust anyone, not even his own sister. He felt like a caged animal, pacing across the kitchen and past the fireplace before whirling around to her and painting a finger at her. “I asked one thing of you, and it was to be discreet. And you blow it for banana bread?”

“Do you think I didn’t try?” She flicked the blue strand of hair over her ear. “He was supposed to be at work. I had no way of knowing that. But you did.”

“If you’d told me what the fuck you were planning, I could have told you to not do it!” Bill retorted, slamming a hand down on the counter. “Becca, that’s bullshit. I don’t have to check in!”

“And neither should I!” Becca snapped, shifting her weight in that way she did when her anger boiled over the brim. “You don’t talk to me, and you want me to talk to you? You know, you should be thanking me. They’re good people.”

“To you.” Bill wrapped his fingers around the edge of the granite countertop, drawing a breath. He didn’t want to be mad at Becca, but he hadn’t wanted Frank to think he owed him. He didn’t want anything to change. “I hide in a basement. I don’t know how to deal with people.”

“And so what? You know that there are people would like you if you gave them a chance?”

“Because that’s worked out so well!” It hadn’t worked out at work, in the couple of pathetic excuses for relationships he’d tried to have, with his neighbors, with anyone except for Becca, and now maybe Frank. Which Becca may completely fucked up. “I finally found someone who I think might not hate being around me, and then… all of this!”

“Bill, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Becca demanded, crossing her arms.

“Wrong with me?” Bill shook his head. “People hate me, I hate people.”

“We don’t hate each other,” Becca scoffed.

“Well, you’re trying my patience if nothing else!”

“Fuck off,” she snapped. “You think you can hide out and just pretend other people don’t exist. But they do, and you don’t get to control all of the outcomes. You don’t get to plan things for me. I almost died, Bill. Again. And I know it’s hard to not have control over that-“

“You don’t know anything about how I felt!” Bill slammed his hand down on the countertop. “I have no one. No one to talk to about you, except one fucking therapist I didn’t even want to talk to.” He couldn’t even go see her because of the pandemic. “I had to sit here every day wondering if I’d lose the only person I gave a shit about.”

“And I’m not you!”

Bill hated the smolder in her eyes, the anger. He’d pushed her too far, something he hadn’t done since before she’d gotten sick for the second time. A flood of guilt rushed through him, his body deflating. “Give me some good reason why you’d take that kind of chance. Just tell me.”

Becca snorted. “Come on, you’ve already made it clear you’re not interested in my ‘excuses’.”

“Then make it make some fucking sense, Becca!”

She stepped back from the counter, reaching on arm across her body and picking at her opposite elbow. “Bill-“

“Why?”

She let out a long sigh of breath. “I didn’t think it would hurt anything. I thought he’d be at work. And…” She looked down and away, then back to Bill. “It’s the doctor’s office.”

“The fuck?”

“All the chemo. All of the fucking chemo. Under those paintings, of green fields, crazy mixed media abstract faces, art I could stare at, art I could run my fingers along.” She lifted her head and Bill saw the tears pooling in the corner of her eyes. He started to step forward, but she stepped away. “I survived. And this is a little piece of that, of… that all of that bullshit wasn’t for nothing. That I’m alive. I lost most of the friends I had.”

“Then they were shit friends,” Bill muttered.

“Yeah, well, that’s how it goes. Maybe there’s something to just shutting out all the other people. You were the only one there to hold my hand, even under the circumstances. But my world isn’t your world. I need people. And so a nice lady calls me up, offers me banana bread, and says I can come over. So I went over. I thought Frank would be at work-“

“Oh you’re on a first name basis now?” Something about hearing her say his name riled something up in him. It underscored that Frank existed outside of his time with Bill, he lived a normal life. Why would he want anything to do with Bill? Yet no one had made him take Bill’s hand, stand so close to Bill…

“And you’re not?” She dropped her arms to her sides. “I fought to live every day under those paintings. I just thought maybe if I was going to have one, I deserved to just go get it. I didn’t plan on seeing him, I thought I’d be in and out.”

Bill wasn’t good with people, but he knew what his sister’s sorrow sounded like. Fuck. He was an asshole. “Why didn’t you tell me the art meant so much?”

“You’re not the sentimental type,” she muttered.

“For you I am.” He let out a breath and stepped forward. He wanted to hug her but he didn’t know how.

She looked up at him and stepped forward, holding her arms out. “You fucking idiot.”

Bill swallowed and wrapped his arms around her, embracing her warmth, her life. “God damnit.” He didn’t love it, but he should have known she’d have a reason. It was one of the things they actually did have in common.  

Her arms weren’t as strong as they used to be, still too thin. She still had a long way to go for recovery.

“Why are you so afraid?” she muttered against his chest, her fingers digging into his shirt.

He tried to articulate it. He wasn’t afraid, of course he wasn’t afraid. He was strong, in his tower. He didn’t need anything. Being afraid and hating people were different things.

He pulled in a breath. No, that’s wrong. He’d been afraid of losing Becca, because she was the only one he wasn’t afraid of. And now, someone else pushed into that space, past the walls, and he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what scared him more, that someone had gotten under his skin, or that he already felt a sense of dread of losing that. “Not afraid.”

“Sure.” She hugged him tighter and he wrapped his arms more snugly around her.

He pulled away first. “I don’t like it.”

“I know. If it helps, his sister is as pretty as he is.”

Bill pressed his lips together and reached for his glass of wine. He sipped at the wine, resisting the urge to gulp it. “Jesus, Becca.”

“Don’t judge me,” she warned, downing the last of her wine and reaching for the bottle.

Bill pulled it away and reached over to pour the wine into her glass, then moved to fill his own glass. She’d shown him immense honestly, the least he could do was show her some of his own. “I don’t know why I’m mad about it, it’s not like I’m ever going to meet his family.”

“You don’t know that.” She didn’t pick her wine back up. “Buy more paintings, they’ll feed you. Maybe you’d run into Frank.”

He snorted. “Yeah, well, I’m not doing that. Did you at least save me some of the fucking banana bread?”

“You know it.” She moved to her purse on the counter and pulled out a foil wrapped package, setting it on the counter. “Although I couldn’t bring any bacon wrapped meatloaf. It didn’t last long.”

“They gave you meatloaf?” Unbelievable. Bill didn’t trust it, not one bit. People didn’t just feed people for no reason. It must have been because of how much the paintings cost, they must have figured that they should do something nice. Or maybe they thought Becca would buy more paintings.

All this explained why Frank had gone silent the day before, though. They’d had a brief conversation about the chicken painting, and then nothing. No doubt he felt bad about having dinner with Becca behind his back.

No, that was even more ridiculous. Frank probably had a nice time talking with Becca, and Bill knew he shouldn’t begrudge them that. At least he knew Becca was with someone he knew wasn’t a dick. Although in turn, that basically meant that he did trust Frank and by association his family, at least a little.

Fuck, what was knowing Frank even doing to him? He felt unsettled, his stomach roiling with the nerves of it all.

“You should at least try the banana bread,” Becca noted, pushing it gently across the counter.

He picked up the foil wrapped package and tugged it open, the foil crackling in his hands. He broke off one piece and eating it. Lots of banana, nuts, enough chocolate chips but not too many. It pained him to admit that it was actually delicious. “Fine. Okay. It’s good.”

She looked triumphant and he resigned himself to his fate. He closed the package back up and set it aside. “I told you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He grunted.

“Do you want to stop being mad and look at the painting now?” Becca asked.

Bill sighed and nodded. He may as well see the object that spawned this clusterfuck. Becca darted back into the entry and Bill took a gulp of his wine. This wine deserved better than that, though, so he forced himself to slow down.

Becca came back with the painting, holding it away from Bill initially before she flipped it over to display the painting. Bill stared. It was completely different in real life, more textured. Becca laid it down on the counter and stepped back, gesturing at it. Bill ran a finger along the edge, finding that there was more than paint. Small pieces of metal were under the paint, lending another dimension to the artwork.

There was a flow to it, a feeling, and something in it soothed Bill in a way that unsettled him. It felt right to have this bit of Frank here. It also felt like something he didn’t have a right to. He supposed it was art, and that was something that was created freely. And he’d paid for it.

This particular piece, though, with it’s feeling of something just under the surface, through the feeling of trees, the mixed media of the painting highlighting the shapes. He didn’t want to touch it more than he had to, not wanting to damage it. He wasn’t into art, he didn’t appreciate art like Becca did. He didn’t need art. There were so many more practical things.

But despite all of the rational things his brain told him, having the piece in front of him evoked something he couldn’t describe, amplified by Becca’s explanation.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

He drew in a breath. “Yeah.”

She chuckled. “That’s it?”

“I’m not good at art stuff.” He studied it. “I’m going to replace that weird painting that Mom had upstairs with it.”

“The one in your room?” She grinned. “Oh, you’ve got it bad.”

“Shut up,” he muttered. Maybe that would be too much. But it’s not like Frank would ever see it there, which would spare him that embarrassment at least. He picked his glass of wine back up, glancing past Becca to the monitor on the far end of the kitchen. Something appeared to be going on over at the neighbors’ house. A car had pulled up and someone had gotten out.

He didn’t like people fucking around near the house. He’d have to go check on this in the bunker. “Want to go down to the bunker with me?”

“I’m still allowed in after my crimes against your love life?”

“I don’t have a love life,” he muttered, starting towards the hallway. No, that he wouldn’t even contemplate. If he was honest with himself, the thread had already planted himself.

“Well, not yet.” He heard her footsteps behind him, and she caught up with him as he opened the door to the basement.

“What does that even mean?”

“Mmm nothing.”

“Becca,” Bill warned. He didn’t have the patience for her subtleties.

“All I’m saying is that you both seem to like hanging out.”

Bill started down the stairs, balancing his wine glass as he descended. “Yeah, and that’s probably all that’s going to come of it.” Frank leaning in close, almost like he’d kiss Bill. But he hadn’t. “Can we please just leave it alone?”

Becca clicked her tongue. “Well, whatever happens, don’t get mad at him for me going over there. That was my idea.”

“Yeah. I’m not even mad, I’m just…” He trailed off. Confused? Probably. Irritated? Definitely.

His anger would probably be better reserved for whoever was fucking around outside of his house. He entered the code to get down into the bunker. It had been built as some kind of fallout shelter at some point, but he’d turned in into his own space years ago. Becca jokingly referred to it as his man cave, but it was so much more than that. This was a place of safety for him.

He descended the metal staircase, hearing the sound of Becca’s sneakers on the floor of the basement. “Your wine collection is growing,” she commented.

Bill grunted. “Don’t get any ideas,” he warned.

“Oh, I’m not.” She started down the stairs behind him. “I should have asked if Frank likes wine.”

Bill sighed. He wasn’t going to hear the end of this, was he? He walked around the desk and reviewed the monitors he had set up. A car had arrived at the house next door. Bill dropped down into his chair, setting his wine down on the desk. He leaned in to focus on the monitor, and watched the three people walking around the house.

“You have to be kidding me? Fucking Steve?”

“No way!” Becca peered over his shoulder. “Did he buy that house?”

“No, it sold to that lady from the wine shop,” Bill muttered, his fingers curling over his keyboard.

Becca groaned. “Aw shit.”

Bill honed in on that. “Now what?” It occurred to him almost immediately. “What the fuck is wrong with these people?” He scanned the monitors, pressing his lips together as he recognized Gabby in another shot. The third person, with Gabby… well. He couldn’t have missed Frank, even if he had tried. “Steve bought the house? Did you know this?” He turned to Becca, who had perched on a tall stool nearby.

“I had no clue, no one said anything about a house.” Becca leaned over to review the monitors. “Uh. I think he has the chicken.”

Bill flicked his eyes back to the monitors, honing in on the one with Frank. Sure enough, Frank held a painting in his hands as he closed the door of the car, and to Bill’s horror, started in the direction of Bill’s house. A small limp was still present in his steps. Fuck.

He got to his feet so fast that his chair flung backwards and hit a box behind him with a thud. He reached past Becca and grabbed a bag of cheese puffs, throwing them on the desk. Her face lit up and she dove for them. “Is this a bribe to keep me from watching this all go down on the monitors?”

“No. It’s a bribe to stay right here. I’ll be back.”

Becca cackled and he could hear her opening the bag. She loved those horrid things, he only kept them in the house for her sake. They were messy. “Don’t get any on my stuff!” he hollered back, stomping up the stairs and not catching her muffled reply.

This was the last thing he needed. Now Steve would be his neighbor? Steve already thought he was weird, and living next door to Bill wasn’t going to make that any easier. Bill liked when that house was vacant, when there was no noise, when he could just have a sturdy, dependable neighbor that was just a building.

Having anyone living there at all was bad enough, but Steve Jacoby was the icing on the cake.

Bill reached the main floor and paused as he came up to the front door, running a hand through his hair. He hadn’t thought this through, but by his estimation, Frank would be there any moment, and now his only options were to open the door, or to pretend he wasn’t home, which he suspected wouldn’t sell since he’d parked the truck in the driveway, and Becca had parked next to him.

He flung the door open as Frank came up the stairs, crossing his arms. “What are you doing here?”

Frank blinked, looking startled, and held up the painting. “I thought I’d bring this to you.” He grinned and Bill felt his resolve waiver. “Call it a three for two sale.”

“You could have let me know you were coming,” Bill muttered.

“I texted you,” Frank noted.

Bill realized he’d left his phone in some random location in the house, and hadn’t looked at it all day. Well, that would explain a lot. “Well I’m not attached to that thing all day.”

“I can tell.” Frank stood on the front porch, now in the shade. “I texted you because I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to let you know what was going on before we just showed up here.”

“Or you could have just not showed up here,” Bill snapped. “You know that Steve bought that house?”

Frank flinched. “Yeah.” He held up a hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Bill drew in a breath. “By just telling me?” He thought about the camera monitoring the front door, and wondered if Becca was watching this all play out. She’d been worse than usual at minding her own business. He wouldn’t change her, but sometimes it was too much. He couldn’t shake the thought of just having a conversation on the front porch, in view of everyone. He glanced towards the house next door just in time to see Steve wave. Bill didn’t grace him with a reaction as he looked back to Frank. “May as well come in,” he muttered, stepping back.

Frank looked away and then back to Bill. “I mean, I’d love to. I have a little bit of time. They’re just working on a list of things they need to get for when they move in. It’s kind of boring.” He held up the painting. “Besides, I can hand deliver this. Maybe I can meet this famous big fuckin’ chicken someday.”

Bill groaned. “Not you, too.” He stepped back and gestured for Frank to enter, then shut the door after he’d come inside.

“Becca’s here, too?” Frank asked. “Her car is out front.”

“She’s busy,” Bill said, maybe too curtly, as he gestured for Frank to go into the living room. He didn’t want Frank to see the painting sitting out, it felt like a reminder that Bill had already let Frank get too close. And now he’d let Frank into his house.

Frank set the painting down on a chair. “I can go if this is too weird.”

Bill watched his eyes taking in the room, regarded Frank, here, in his home. He remembered the soft scratching of the sketching Frank had done. How easily it could have been here, on this couch. No, that was dangerous. That was a place Bill couldn’t afford to go.

But he couldn’t help it, because Frank was in his living room, at ease even though he had to feel the tension in the room. Frank smiled and Bill felt his irritation dissipate. “It’s fine,” he muttered. “Don’t have much company, I guess.”

“I don’t either, last few years.” Frank glanced down at the table. He sat down on the couch and Bill realized that he’d caught sight of the sketch, still on the table. He looked back up at Bill with a huge smile. “You kept it.”

“Told you I wanted it.” Bill edged around to the piano bench, not ready to sit next to Frank. And Frank for his part looked far too at home on Bill’s couch. “Cut the bullshit. Why didn’t you tell me about Steve?”

Frank sighed, leaning back on the couch. “I thought it was Steve’s business, but he hadn’t gotten around to telling you. But that’s not the point.“ He ran his hands down the thighs of his jeans, and Bill couldn’t look away. “Every day, I’m trying to keep my personal life and my professional life as far away from each other as I can. Because the last time I couldn’t draw that line, it wasn’t great.” His fingers traced a seam on the couch. “That line’s gotten pretty blurry where you’re concerned.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the professional.” Bill put his hands on his knees. He couldn’t read what Frank wanted, but he was keenly aware of the way Frank watched him.

“I’m not feeling like much of one right now.” Frank held his hands up. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to lie to you or anything. You can take or leave that.”

Bill’s eyes slid over to the painting. “Thanks,” he murmured, tucking his hands between his legs. “For the painting.”

“She’s lovely. The chicken, that is. Although I think it’s a decent painting. I meant what I said about meeting the chickens.”

Bill nodded, pulling his eyes away from the painting to Frank. He remembered their omelette conversation. “Are you interested or just being nice?”

“Both.” He shifted his pose. “Can I tell you about something?”

Bill nodded. “Yeah.” If he could hear that cadence of Frank’s voice a little longer, he’d take it.

“The night I came to work injured, I stumbled at my mom’s house. On the stairs.” His hands stopped their restless motion. “I was upset because my ex husband called. He wanted a painting from me.”

Bill didn’t knew where this was going. Frank having an ex husband didn’t feel like a surprise, but Bill didn’t love hearing about it, either. “So he didn’t want to be with you but he’ll take a painting? That’s shitty.”

“It’s not quite like that.” Frank chuckled. “I mean, I fucked up, too.” He reached out and straightened the sketch on the table. “It was a hard day. This sketch felt really good.” He looked up at Bill. “Thank you. For seeing me. It’s been a while since I got to feel like that, and I’m glad it was you. Maybe I got to see just a little of you, too.”

Bill swallowed, nodding. Something in Frank’s words felt like he was feeling something out. “I’m not great with subtle shit.” He tucked his hair back over his ear.

“I know.” Frank sat up straighter. “Do you want to spend more time with me?”

Bill nodded. “I don’t offer omelets to anyone.” He looked back at the painting, following the lines of it, the colors. “Not used to anyone wanting to be around me.”

Frank got to his feet and came around to Bill’s side, putting a hand on his shoulder. “That’s something wrong with them, not with you.”

Bill blinked and his breath felt shakier. Frank’s hand was a heavy reassurance, an acceptance, something that Bill couldn’t even put words to. He wanted to protest that, but instead, he leaned into Frank. God damn this man, this random stripper from a club with a stupid name and it’s stupid cocktails. For making Bill want to let his walls down, for making him want to let someone in.

Frank squeezed his shoulder. “I should get going before someone comes looking for me.”

Bill felt his absence keenly as he stepped away, and he got to his feet to put distance between him and Frank. He needed a moment, to process this. Come on, Bill. He couldn’t just tell Frank how much he loved spending time with him. That wasn’t Bill.

In that moment, Bill realized that he didn’t know what being Bill really meant, or should mean. Not in this context. He wasn’t good with words. “Maybe you can help me find the best place to hang the paintings.”

“So practical.” Frank smiled. “I’d love to.” He paused. “Come on over to the club this week, we’ll work out a time. I’ll be back to working. I have something to show you.”

Bill blinked, confused, drawing all the wrong conclusions. Frank laughed, lightly. It didn’t feel mean. “No, not that. I mean, unless you want me to, although it’s not exactly what I had in mind.”

Bill thought on that, on the thought of seeing Frank, all of Frank. Much more handsome than anyone in any of those shitty magazines he hid in the bunker. Aesthetically pleasing but lacking something. Lacking…

Frank’s smile drew all his attention. Attention. The way he saw Bill, the way he didn’t flinch when Bill was being an ass. And sure, Frank had his things; he talked a lot. Usually Bill couldn’t stand that. When Frank spoke, though, when he coaxed Bill… it all felt right.

He didn’t want to see Frank at work. He wanted to see Frank here. He couldn’t make sense of that feeling, because he never wanted anyone in his house. He didn’t know how to ask, to say it. “Why the club? Can’t we meet…” here? “Somewhere else?”

“Do you trust me?” Frank asked.

Bill didn’t trust hardly anyone. He certain didn’t trust just any handsome stranger. But Frank wasn’t a stranger anymore, or at least, he hoped he wasn’t. “Yeah. Although I’ll be damned if I know why.”

“Then trust me. It’ll make sense.” Frank straightened his shirt. “It’s just… it’s something I need to do. For me.”

Bill crossed his arms over his chest. “Fine. Then no more cryptic bullshit?”

“No more cryptic bullshit.” Frank’s phone rang, alarmingly loud. He flinched and pulled it out of his pocket, tapping a key and the ringing stopped. “Steve.”

“Fucking Steve,” Bill muttered. Yeah, living next door to Steve was going to piss him off. But at least it had one silver lining, he supposed.

Frank tapped a few keys on the phone and pushed it back into his pocket. “He can wait a minute. Show me big fuckin’ chicken.”

Bill couldn’t help it. A smile broke over his face. “Fine. Okay. I’ll show you the stupid chicken. Least I can do, I guess.”

“Wait.” Frank reached out and brushed his arm as Bill started for the door. “Listen. Until I see you at the club… let’s keep talking. Text me, call. You can ask me anything you want. Tell me whoever pissed you off at work, even if it’s my stepbrother.”

“It’ll definitely be your stepbrother,” Bill shot back, his face warming. He was a grown man for shit’s sake, why was the prospect of talking to someone a big deal? He didn’t like the phone. He didn’t like conversation. And yet…

Frank laughed and the sound filled the room, in a way that room had never been filled with another person’s sound. He led Frank out to the yard.

They walked out to the chicken pen, where Bill pulled out a bag of feed. Becca was probably eating this up along with her fucking cheesy poofs. He held the bucket out to Frank. “Throw some out to them, they’ll come running.”

Frank grinned and dug his hand into the bucket. He grabbed feed like a city person, messy, spilling out from between his fingers. He flung it into the enclosure and all of the chickens started fussing, converging on the mess of feed.

“They’re cute!” Frank beamed, squatting down to put a finger through the mesh. “Aw there she is! She’s bigger in person. She’s magnificent!”

Bill had never heard someone call his chicken magnificent. “She’s nice but that white one will get you,” Bill warned. “She’s fast.”

Frank pulled his hand back. “I won’t risk it today. With my luck Steve will need my help with something.”

“Yeah, he’s like that at work, too,” Bill muttered, hanging the feed bucket back up.

“I’m somehow not surprised.” He dusted his hands off on his pants. His enthusiasm showed all over his face, his eyes bright. “I’ll text you when I get home.”

Bill nodded. “Yeah. I’ll… uh. See you later.”

Frank reached up and brushed a finger along Bill’s neck, and something in the gesture held more intimacy than Bill thought possible by standing next to a pen full of squawking chickens. Bill suppressed a shiver.

“I can’t wait. And say hi to Becca!” Frank waved and jogged back across the yard towards (ugh) Steve’s house. Bill watched him go, eying the shape of his legs.

He wandered back towards the house, headed for the back door to minimize any awkward encounters with Steve or Gabby.

As he approached, the back door to the house swung open and Becca popped out, holding his phone over her head. “Found your phone! You have a lot of texts!”

He took it from her and found little cheese dust fingerprints all over it. He frowned. “Becca.”

“Don’t you put that evil on me, Ricky Bobby,” Becca quipped.

The fuck did that even mean? “How much of that did you see?”

“Enough. You fuckin’ softie, you showed him the chickens!”

“Fuck off,” he muttered, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiping the cheese dust away.

He had a long week of waiting ahead of him. Good thing he had plenty of wine, especially because getting more meant Gabby. Fucking Steve, he couldn’t even enjoy the wine shop in peace. 

Chapter Text

Friday.

Frank sat on the couch, his feet propped up on the table. His ankle’s previous week’s drama had dulled to barely a whisper, and he’d been working the last few days. He’d enjoyed that; it felt good to move, to connect to people. He’d had good tips the night before between Kevin and a new customer. The new customer he’d probably never see again, the guy seemed like he just wanted to check it out and that was that, but at least he’d come prepared.

He’d had only one asshole that week, who had grabbed his ass at the bar. He’d had a moment of wondering if he was grabbing for a lot more. If Frank had to guess, it took under a minute for Joel to haul the guy out and toss him out the door, which meant that Tess alerted him in seconds. Frank was used to that shit, but he appreciated that the club never let it go on for long. He ended up dancing for a group of ladies that were clearly straight, but they were respectful despite their drunkenness, and they’d ended up having a lot of laughs together. Not the usual for him at all, but one of them said that it was the bachelorette party for her second marriage, and they just wanted to have a low stress good time. He’d take that.

And now Friday had finally arrived, the night he’d looked forward to the most: the night he’d meet Bill at The Bou-Peek.

Over the course of the week, he’d painted two pictures of Bill, which sat prominently on easels in front of him. One, the closest he could get to capturing Bill’s small smile. Another a painting based off of one of his sketches from the club.

He idly scrolled through his phone, at the onslaught of messages he’d gotten over the course of the week. Erika, lightly teasing him, texting him a picture of him and Becca having coffee, their smiles huge. His father, confirming dinner that they were supposed to have before work. Frank looked forward to that, to that moment where he could just enjoy dinner before he went to the club to put everything on the line.

The thought felt so dramatic. That tracked, Frank supposed.

He scrolled through the messages with Bill. Some pictures through the week, mostly of random things. Frank sent a lot of himself, always smiling. Bill sent chickens, a couple of pictures of dinners he’d made, which were strangely good. They were something he took care in, a lot like Frank saw his own art. That’s the feeling he got when he looked at Bill’s pictures of food.

His phone chimed. FRIDAY. Becca. They’d only exchanged a few texts this week, and he certainly hadn’t told her what today was. He wondered if Bill did.

Is that supposed to mean anything with my stripper hours?

Becca texted back a wink and nothing else.

Becca had been working all week, with Erika increasingly excited to get out of the house until they’d had coffee earlier that day. It wasn’t a date according to both of them; they were just hanging out. But Frank had his suspicions, based on the fact that Erika didn’t get excited often, and this, she was excited about. She’d told him that if nothing else, she had a friend. Maybe Frank should have taken a page from their book and just asked Bill to go do something. 

Frank set his phone down and got up, putting together his clothes for the night. Not the ones he’d wear to work, no: he collected the ones he’d wear after work. He picked a casual green button up shirt (something told him Bill liked green, maybe his taste in artwork), a pair of well fitting jeans, a jacket, socks. May as throw an undershirt in there, too. He added a second change of clothing, just in case.

He didn’t know if he’d need it, but he packed it into a small suitcase anyway. A warmth spread through him. Maybe he’d get a chance to have that omelet after all. And if not, well, he’d sleep in Tess’s guest room tonight.

He went back to the living room and set down his suitcase. The thud of it on the floor made him chuckle. Thinking more than two steps ahead. Salim would have laughed, and then wondered why Frank couldn’t learn to plan ahead sooner.

But not even that thought brought him down, not today.

He grabbed his phone and sent Bill a text. Looking forward to seeing you tonight.

Bill’s reply came back quickly. Me too. A moment. You don’t have to dance or anything.

I know. I want to, it’s the end of the shift. No paying, just us.

It took longer for Bill to reply this time. Early night for you. What’s after work?

Frank thought about what to say in reply. He wanted to say something flirty, something funny, something… He thought through all of the options. “Whatever you want”? “Let’s head back to your place”? “Staying up all night and I’m making you breakfast because you’re not gonna wanna walk in the morning”? Oh god no, too horny. “Waking up next to you tomorrow”? Tempting, but not quite it, either.

Frank threw his phone down on the couch and it bounced off and onto the floor. It chimed not long after it hit the carpet and Frank leaned back, covering his face with his hands. This is why he had a no customers rule. Too much gray area, too many chances.

He wasn’t about to circle the drain of “what if”, though. That was the whole reason he wanted to see Bill tonight. To tell him where he stood.

He pulled his hands away and leaned over to pick up the phone off the floor. A text from Bill. Or we can figure it out as we go. No expectations.

Frank let out a breath. Sounds good.

The alarm on his phone went off, indicating that it was time for him to leave. He had a planned dinner with his dad before work, and he’d leave early to catch up with him at a café not far from the club. His dad would be the best reminder he could have. Be brave.

He gathered up his keys and picked up his suitcase, heading out to his car. He set the suitcase in the trunk, then hopped in and started his car.

Or he tried to. Nothing happened.

Well fuck.

“Fucking car,” Frank muttered, turning his key in the ignition again as if it would change the outcome. God damnit. “Fuck!”

He leaned forward and rested his head on the steering wheel. Okay. Okay. He withdrew his phone from his pocket and dialed his dad, who picked up almost immediately. Frank could tell from the sounds in the background that he was driving.

“Don’t tell me you’re cancelling,” his dad warned.

“Depends. My car’s dead. Feel like swinging past my place?” Frank juggled his phone while climbing out of his car and retrieving his suitcase.

“Only if you let me buy dinner.”

“You drive a hard bargain, but that’s a deal.” Frank chuckled. “Jeff’s rubbed off on you.”

“You can tell him all about it later and watch him gloat. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

Frank hung up and leaned against his car, closing his eyes. At least he’d planned on running somewhat early tonight. He went back inside while he waited, pacing through the apartment. His dad sent him his location, and Frank headed outside when he was close.

He texted Bill as he headed back outside. My car died. I’ll still be there tonight, I’m just mad about it.

I can probably fix it. If you want.

Frank smiled. I’ll let you know. I can trade some art but that’s about it.

“No paying, just us.”

Frank’s own words back at him and he could almost hear Bill’s scoff. He smiled as his dad pulled up next to his car. He rolled down his window. “And what are you smiling about?”

Frank wasn’t about to go there. “I don’t need a reason to smile. It’s part of my charm.”

“Stop shitting sunshine and get in the car.”

Frank tossed his suitcase in the back and got in the passenger seat, putting on his seatbelt. “Thanks for the ride.”

His father pulled out of the parking space and started driving. His phone chimed and he didn’t look at it. He remembered a drive with his father, years ago. The drive after his father told him he had someone he wanted him to meet, the day his father tried to apologize for everything he’d done to Frank’s childhood and his subsequent homophobia as Frank grew older. His severe nature, being unable to bridge the gap between them because they were so, so different. All of which had come from his resentment that Frank was living as himself, when his own father had to hold everything he wanted inside. Who he was.

In the end, they were more alike than Frank had realized. Frank couldn’t imagine the amount of repression his father had put himself through.

That had been years ago, now, almost twenty years. Water under the bridge, as his father had taken him to meet Jeff, who would turn out to be the love of Zachary Brightman’s life. It had taken years for Frank to truly forgive his father, to repair the torn and strained relationship between them. It was meeting Jeff that had made everything more clear and had been the catalyst that had brought father and son back together.

In a strange kind of full circle, now Frank going to meet… well. He didn’t know what Bill was. A friend, for certain. A friend he really wanted to kiss. Maybe more than kiss. No, definitely more than kiss.

“You’re awfully quiet,” his dad observed. He was wearing another ridiculous Hawaiian shirt.

“Coming from you?” Frank chuckled.

“You’re holding something back.”

Frank looked down at his phone to find a picture from Bill. It was a picture of the painting of Big Fuckin’ Chicken, now hanging above a fireplace. “Aw,” he said out loud, then bit it back. His dad would see through all of it, so he may as well tell him. “I met someone. I think.”

“The guy from Steve’s work?”

“What the fuck?” Frank bounced his head against the headrest in frustration. “Did Steve tell you?”

“No, this was all Erika.” He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Sounds like his sister made an impression.”

Frank snorted. “You’re all the worst.”

“Do I get to meet the mystery guy?”

 “God, Dad, no.” Frank hesitated. “We’re not together. He’s just someone I know.”

“You’re like this over a man you’re not even dating yet?” Zach shrugged and pulled onto the freeway.

“Stop,” Frank moaned. “Seriously.”

“Okay, okay.” His dad glanced over at him. “But he makes you smile.”

Frank looked at the picture on the phone. Yeah. He supposed Bill did. Somehow, with all his grumpy shit and awkward things, he absolutely made Frank smile. Maybe because of all of that. That Bill didn’t apologize for being himself, he just was.

“Yeah.” Frank grinned. “He does.”

They sat at the café talking until it was almost time for his shift. They talked about Jeff’s piano students, retirement, art shows, recent boat trips, Steve’s new house (Frank refrained from mentioning the incident from the week before).

He debated not telling his father, but at the same time… Fuck it. If anyone would understand, it would be his father. “The thing about Bill is… I don’t know how much he’ll be ready for.”

“You don’t know until you try. Why are you holding back? You usually jump in with both feet.”

“I used to.” Frank poked at a piece of over-steamed broccoli with his fork. He hated when it was slightly mushy. “It used to be easy. Some days it feels like Salim really messed me up. We messed each other up.”

“Frank.” Zach reached across the table and put his hand on Frank’s. “That’s what a divorce does sometimes. In the long run, it’s better to cut that off rather than keep damaging it. I know.”

Frank supposed his dad did know, maybe better than he did. He’d put Frank’s mother through a lot, all in the name of traditions and the same shit his own father had done. Dolores had seen through Zach’s shit a lot faster than Zach himself had. She’d been the least surprised about Jeff. Now they all had brunch together on Sundays.

“I think I should have done it sooner. But it’s hard to tell when things are a mess.” Frank pulled his hand back and ate the offending broccoli anyway, chewing and swallowing. It tasted about like he expected: vaguely of disappointment. He sipped at his lemon water. “It’s not even that I’m hesitating. I just don’t want to fuck it up.”

“You know what you have to do?” Zach asked, taking a drink of his Diet Pepsi.

“Bang it out like a normal person?”

Zach choked on his drink and sat it down, reaching for a napkin to cough into. “Damnit,” he managed.

“You okay? Sorry.” Frank felt bad. “Didn’t think that through.”

“It’s fine.” He set the napkin down. “First off, normal is overrated.” Zach nodded sagely, maybe too calmly for a man that just inhaled his soda. “Go with your gut, and you’ll be fine. You have a good instinct, you always have.”

“That was before I started using my instincts for dumb shit like cheating on my husband, but thanks.” His father was right. It was the same with everything in his life. He thought too hard about a painting, tried to think through it upfront, and it evaporated. Thinking about what was about to happen in a call when he was a medic, it meant nothing. It was only what was happening in that moment, when it happened. When he trusted himself.

“I don’t do patience well,” Frank said, and his father laughed.

“Neither do I.”

While his dad paid the Bill, Frank flipped through his email. One of them caught his attention. Congratulations! You’ve been accepted to-

He almost deleted it as spam but instead he opened it. He could believe what he was seeing. “I got accepted to the art show!”

His father cracked a huge grin. “I just won a bet with Jeff.”

Frank’s heart sunk. “He bet against me?”

“He bet you wouldn’t hear back until next week.” He clapped Frank on the back. “I bet you’d have it before we had dinner.”

“But we’ve already had dinner!”

“He doesn’t need to know that. You should let him know when we come by tonight.”

Frank didn’t want to get into this inside the restaurant so he went outside and waited until they got in the car. “Tonight?” Shit. With his luck they’d run right into Bill. But if he said no, they’d definitely know something was up. “Tonight’s a good night to come later,” he said instead, hoping they’d wait to come after his shift, or they wouldn’t decide to go at all.

“I’ll let Jeff know. But you know how he is.”

Unfortunately, yes, Frank did know. And it did nothing for his nerves. But his father had one thing right: he had to trust his gut.

His dad dropped him off at work and Frank headed in through the front, suitcase in tow.

“You movin’ in here?” Joel asked, looking up from a book.

“My rent’s not that expensive.” Frank thought about the club’s situation and froze. Maybe not the best thing to say.

Joel grunted. “Yeah, speaking of that. Check your email. Dani’s spreading the word about the situation.”

Frank flinched. “I haven’t seen it, got distracted by some other mails. That bad?”

Joel frowned. “Yeah. It’s sounding that way. We’re all gonna have to start brainstorming something real quick. Also, I’m back to the job site in about a month, so we need a new bouncer on top of it.”

Frank stopped at the desk and leaned against it. “I can’t bribe you to just stay here, can I?”

“Afraid not.”

“Probably for the best, not having both of you at the same place.” He’d gotten used to Joel being here over the last couple of months. “Guess I’ll just have to come over more.”

“Kids will love that.” Joel stretched. “But we’re talking about a big work event in a couple of weeks. A chance for everyone to get together and relax, potluck. Maybe come up with some ideas if we can.”

“So a big stripper picnic?”

“Minus the stripping probably.” Joel waved him on. “Now get out of here. Go say hi to Tess, I think she’s in the back.”

Frank tugged his suitcase into the club and went to the bar. A few customers were already in the club, and the other bartender, Mindy, had also arrived for a Friday night shift. Tess was nowhere to be found, so he followed Joel’s advice and headed around to the back of the club.

He found her with a huge tray of shots and her face lit up when she saw him. “You’re in time for the tequila! It’s on Dani. You got the email?”

“Not yet, but I got the general sentiment.” Frank pushed his suitcase aside and took a shot off the tray. Others already held theirs, except for the couple of people at the club that didn’t drink. Tess had brought what looked like a shot of the fancy soda, which certainly wasn’t tequila but it was better than nothing. But Frank, he’d take the tequila.

Tess held her shot up. “To the best dancers in this whole fuckin’ state!” She downed it and the others followed. Frank, too, the shot burning down his throat and setting into his belly.

“It’s Friday night, let’s do this.” She set her glass down, and Frank suspected it wasn’t her first shot. The dancers disbursed and Tess sighed, looking over at Frank. “For morale. You can’t drink away the bullshit, but it’s better than pretending there’s no bullshit.”

“It’ll be fine. We’ll figure something out.” Frank grinned and put the glass down. “We haven’t even started to talk about ideas.”

“Aren’t you more optimistic than usual?” She eyed him. “What’s going on?”

He couldn’t hold it back from her. “I got into the art showing!”

“You let us drink to that shit when we could have been drinking to that?” She held up her hand and he high-fived her. “So you’re going to have a fancy little spot in a gallery for a bit?”

“Something like that.”

“We’ll put a sign up when you’re famous, a little card under the painting in the entry.” She held her hands up. “Frank Brightman, before he was famous, painted this abstract dick.”

“Maybe you guys can auction it off and make some money.” Frank chuckled.

“Remember us when you’re famous,” Raj joked, flicking his hip into Frank as he passed.

It reminded Frank that he’d have to get permission from all of the people he’d painted for those paintings to be used in the show. “You know I can’t ever forget you.”

“Who can forget that ass?” Jack quipped as they applied makeup in the mirror. “Congrats!”

“Thanks. Although the show isn’t until November.”

“November? Shit they’re really making you wait.” Tess picked up the tray, not even jiggling the glasses.

“It’s only two months away,” Frank noted, then the reality of that set in. “Shit it’s two months away.”

“Better get your shit together then!”

“I can’t even get my car together.”

Tess hissed, turning with her tray. “Ow. Need me to have Joel take a look?”

Frank would rather be in debt to Joel than Bill, but he’d give Bill the chance. “I’ll let you know.”

“Or you can borrow my car. Ellie can live without it for a few days.”

“I’d take rides to work from her before I’d leave her without the car. You know how she is about the car.” No, he’d mooch a car off his family before he borrowed theirs. He’d never hear the end of it.

“Depends on how much you value your ears, because she’d talk them off the whole way over.” She hustled away with the shot glasses.

Frank dragged his suitcase to his station, and started getting ready. Changing his clothes, adding makeup, altering how he carried himself. All to become Armond. All to strip it all away later to become Frank again when the hustle was over. That was the job, though, and Frank didn’t mind it. But tonight in particular, he looked forward to stepping back into his own shoes. For the next four hours, he was Armond, and he’d sell that with everything he had. After that… Well.

He smiled at himself in the mirror. All the doom and gloom aside, it was going to be a great night. Frank Brightman. Armond. Stripper. Artist.

Maybe if nothing else he could get Bill to drive him home.

He changed his clothes and looked into the mirror again, pulling a comb through his hair. He smiled again, this time with that Armond edge. There it is. He was ready, and just in time, too. He stowed his watch, clothing, and suitcase in his locker, and pulled back his shoulders before he headed out into the club.

Chapter Text

20:36

Bill’s meticulous sense of planning never allowed him to be late for anything. The early bird catches the worm, and Bill always got the worm (he needed it for fishing, after all). Ahead of schedule meant he had more control, could take the time to anticipate, so he arrived at The Bou-Peek early enough to settle in. He’d have a glass of wine, get a little comfortable, before he saw Frank.

He looked down at his old phone sitting in the cup holder of the truck, and decided he didn’t need it. And he didn’t need that fancy new phone, either. The battery died too fast and Bill didn’t need to carry around an expensive time sinking brick. He’d declined adding the clutter to the truck and did not keep a charger there. Good enough of an excuse as any to leave it behind, as he’d been spending too much time on that new fancy phone anyway. Other than texting Frank or occasionally Becca, it didn’t do him any good. He appreciated having a way to talk to Frank without the social pressure of phone calls, but that would do him no favors in person.

The same tacky lights, same as every night he’d come here. He looked out his windshield and up at the sign. It was visible all the way from the freeway. For the first time, Bill thought about how distinctive his truck looked. God. For all he knew, Steve had seen his truck outside the other club and shown right up. Idiot. Why didn’t strip clubs have customers park in the back?

He got out of the truck and crossed the parking lot, entering through the front door.

Joel looked up at him and grunted. “On a Friday, huh? Lot of people in there.”

Bill didn’t know if he felt called out or if he felt seen. The sounds of music pumped through the door, a couple of voices letting out vigorous whooping noises. He flinched but reached for his wallet. “Won’t probably stay long.”

Joel shook his head. “Your cover got paid already.”

Bill shrugged and tucked his wallet back in his pocket, heading through the second set of doors and into the club. The wall of sound hit him like a storm-front and he edged along the wall towards the bar, casting his eyes around the room. Bill longed for his spot in the corner, but a glance over showed him that there was nowhere to sit. He moved up to the bar, jostled by the crowd.

Tess grinned at him and dodged around the other bartender. “I hear you drink wine.”

Was anything a secret around here? “Good wine,” he muttered, although he couldn’t be sure if she’d hear him with the volume. He raised his voice. “Not the shit served in bars.”

Her hand snapped out to a shelf nearby, and she pulled down a bottle of red, pulling out the loose cork. “I don’t know shit about wine, but but this one is supposed to be good. Opened it earlier, had time to breathe.”

Well, not a complete savage, at least. “Will you be offended if I hate it?”

“Not at all. I didn’t make it. Hate my cocktails and it might be a different matter.”

Why not? “Then I’ll try it.”

She poured the glass and slid it over to him and he passed back his card in return. It stuck slightly in a small puddle of water, and Tess tucked a fingernail under it to free it. “You can hang out back here. Less traffic. Priority service.”

He didn’t see a lot of other options, so he nodded and tucked himself onto a barstool. He found Frank at the front of the stage. His breath caught in his throat. On stage the performance was in full swing and Bill watched from the relative safety of the wall. He spotted Frank on stage as he danced closer to another dancer, the two moving together in a mesmerizing rhythm. They took turns unbuttoning a single button on their own shirts and then they shifted stance, removing their shirts at the same time.

Bill swallowed. Oh, this was a lot.

Frank moved towards the front row, lowering himself as someone reached up and tucked money into his shorts. Maybe it was harder than he thought it was to watch Frank dance for someone else. But the Frank dancing on stage wasn’t… Frank. At least, that’s how Bill rationalized that he was too smooth, too at ease in his motions. His eyes were lined in makeup, purple to match what he wore. The man in the front row just barely touched Frank as he slipped the cash into his shorts.

A surge of jealousy thrummed through Bill, and he braced himself to take a sip of the wine. He needed the glass to hide his scowl behind. He wanted to be grumpy and pretend that the wine was just passable, but that would be a disservice to the wine. But it didn’t take away the sting of watching someone else almost touch Frank.

Was this a mistake? He hated the feeling that pooled in his gut.

Frank got up and danced backwards then spun, his back to the crowd. He and the other dancer moved closer than apart, and reached for each other’s shorts. They pulled them free from each other, scattering the cash onto the stage, and turned back to the crowd.

Bill caught a glimpse of Frank completely naked except for his boots, and he thought he’d stop breathing. Of course he’d look good, of course he’d be… well. The flush that filled his face made him want to sink into a shadowed corner. Just keep sipping at the wine, he told himself.

But god he looked good. Aesthetically, Bill watched men since he was a teenager, always secretive. He had a box of adult magazines in the bunker, which were fine but nothing that really gave him this same feeling. And watching porn hadn’t done much for him. Aside from one porn he’d watched once which had been of an actual couple. The connection between them had tugged at him, in a way that he was ashamed to ever admit out loud. Sex wasn’t anything without a connection, and the one time he’d tried that it had been laborious and just bad.

Bill looked away, clutching the stem of his wine glass in his hand. The wall behind the bar was a giant mirror, thwarting his efforts to take his eyes off Frank. He caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the mirror, with Frank in the background. His own face was flushed, his hair messy. What was he even doing? Sitting on the back wall of a strip climb, nursing a surprisingly decent wine and a persistent half erection, and for what? To watch a man gyrate on stage with his dick out?

No, he was here because he was still drawn to Frank. Not to just his body but to him. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t look, and look he did, because he couldn’t help it. The mirror brought a delicious, sweet relief, obscuring his staring from others. He ran a hand through his hair to straighten it, then shifting his gaze back to Frank. His heart smashed around in his chest. It wasn’t that Frank was naked. It wasn’t that others came so close to touching him.

It was that when he was with Frank, none of this other bullshit mattered. Bill wasn’t the person that he showed to the rest of the world, and neither was Frank. Then again, was anyone really the person they showed to the world?

Frank flashed a grin and spun as the song ended, showing a generous view of his backside before he disappeared behind a curtain. Bill watched him go, tracing the lines of him, then relaxed marginally as he glanced around the room. Busy, but not to capacity. This place cold hold a lot more, on a Friday. Not that he wanted it to, but he wished this place had someone like Becca who could advertise the hell out of it.

He waited, steadily draining the wine from his glass, until he saw Frank emerge from a side door, now dressed as he dodged around the edge of the club to make it to the bar. 

Bill supposed “dressed” was generous; he was back in the dark purple shorts and shimmery purple shirt. His eyes were still lined with shades of violet, and he waved to other patrons as he passed. 

Bill could feel his heart beat harder as Frank’s eyes caught his. He focused on Frank until he became a singular point of calm in a sea of sound. Not that Bill felt calm, not at all. Frank raised his hand in a little wave and for a moment Bill felt like they were the only two people in the room. The feeling slipped as way as quickly as it came as someone bumped into him. 

Frank slid in next to Bill, flagging down Tess as he blocked the other man at the bar from crashing into Bill again. “I’ll have a glass of what he’s having. We’re going to go do a toast.” Frank looked over at Bill and smiled. Not the stage smile, but the honest Frank smile. He was taller than Bill here, with heeled shoes. It made his calves look great, but couldn’t possibly be good on the back or the ankles.

“Mmm yeah that’s a good idea.” Tess flicked another glass down and filled it, then held up the bottle to Bill. “Refill?”

His glass was almost empty. He didn’t want to ask how much the wine was, but he also didn’t care. Apparently he wasn’t paying for much else, so he may as well use it on wine and tips. “Sure.” He set the glass on the bar and studied Frank’s face. He could feel the heat rising off his body and suddenly Bill felt like he’d sweat from that alone. Oh god was he sweating? Probably. “What’s got you smiling so much?” Bill hoped that in part maybe it had something to do with him. 

“A couple of things.” He chuckled. “But that’s not for out here.” He picked up his glass of wine and Bill’s. “Follow me.”

“You could be less cryptic,” Bill called back, starting after him.

Frank laughed lightly, dodging through the crowd. “Not out here I can’t.” He slipped between people, agile, flitting through.

Bill felt lumbering in comparison, but that could also be the fact that he hated passing so close to others. Frank paused to let him catch up, hovering just out of reach with the glasses of wine. 

A feeling warmed Bill. Telling Bill something wasn’t for all of these other people. This was something that was to be shared with only Bill.

Frank still held himself like Armond, though, and Bill followed, feeling a bit lost. What was Frank up to?

He led Bill back to a room in the very back, that Bill hadn’t seen before. Frank handed Bill his glass and opened the door.

Inside, the lighting was lit as shitty as the other rooms, but this room was also adorned with strings of small lights. “We don’t use this room much,” Frank noted. “It’s kind of small. We use it for more conversational appointments.”

Frank wasn’t kidding, but Bill actually preferred this smaller room. It had a couch and two chairs, and a small open area in the middle. No pole or anything crazy. “Are you getting out of that outfit?”

“Do you want me to get out of it?” Frank set his wine down and started some music. The lights pulsed gently to the sound, distracting and a bit too much input. Frank reached out a hand press a button. The pulsing stopped and Bill wondered if Frank could read him that well, or if he’d been that obvious.

“Yeah.” his voice cracked. Fuck. “I mean, maybe you’d be more comfortable in something else.” Nope, that wasn’t helping. Now he made it weird. His brain helpfully supplied a picture of Frank naked and Bill averted his eyes from imaginary dick. “You know, never mind.”

Flirting was still horrid and Bill didn’t think he’d ever get the hang of it. 

Frank chuckled but it wasn’t unkind. He moved to the middle of the room, kicking off the heels and picking them up to set them next to a suitcase on the couch. “These things are awful. Only good for making my legs look longer. And they’re plenty long without them.”

Bill shifted his eyes to the suitcase then back up those already plenty long legs, traveling over Frank’s shorts which left nothing to the imagination. Was Bill seeing things or was Frank hard, too? He averted his eyes and swept them up to Frank’s face. He leaned forward, watching the way the purple caught the light around Frank’s eyes. He thought he’d hate it more than he did. “What’s with the makeup?”

“Tonight I had to fill in for another dancer, and that party was paying good money for the color combo.” Frank blinked a couple of times, the purple flickering in the light. “Not that I mind purple, but it washes out my eyes. It’s not really my thing usually, but it’s fun sometimes.”

Bill didn’t think anything could actually wash out Frank’s eyes. “It’s not my thing.”

“That bad?”

“Not quite.” It wasn’t his style, and he wouldn’t have thought about Frank wearing it, but it gave Frank an ethereal quality that Bill couldn’t deny. Bill didn’t love it, but he also didn’t hate it, and that surprised him. It made him curious. “It’s fine. I mean, I wouldn’t pick it.” He just got worse and worse at this. “You don’t need it. But blue or green would be better on you, maybe.”

“Good call. You have an eye for color.”

“Color is just music for the eyes.” He shrugged, feeling like he was perched on the stiff black chair. Who would want to have a full conversation in these? Probably people that just pretended to have conversations. On the flip side, he felt like every conversation he had was him pretending to have a conversation. “Something like that.”

Frank searched his face. “That’s actually really beautiful.”

That warmed Bill like nothing else. “Thanks.”

Frank got to his feet and rummaged in the suitcase, pulling out a light blue package. He plucked something from it and sat back down, wiping at his face until the makeup was gone. “Better?”

Bill nodded, taking a drink of his wine. “Yeah.”

It sounded like such an understatement, but he was certain his staring conveyed the sentiment just fine.

“So, sounded like you had some news,” Bill said. He shifted his gaze to look into his wine, but looked up when Frank retrieved his own wine and dropped down in to the chair across from him.

Frank grinned, a whole new sparkle in his eyes. If color was music for the eyes, then Frank’s own eyes were a symphony, and Bill was ready to hear it play out. 

Chapter Text

Frank held up his glass, his pulse a constant presence in his ears. What if Bill didn’t remember them talking about the art show? Or worse, what if he did, and he wasn’t interested? Then again, he wasn’t telling Bill because he was looking for validation. He wanted to tell someone out loud, who wasn’t obligated to support him because he was family, or because he was close to Frank. Although Frank supposed they were closer than Frank admitted to.

Well, only one way to find out what Bill thought. “Before I tell you, honest opinion. Did you like the paintings?”

Bill stared back at him, unblinking. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

Frank chuckled. “I never know if people are being nice.”

“I’m not nice.” He paused. “I don’t hang things in my house unless I like them. I’m just not good at saying that I like things. I don’t like a lot of things.” He pulled in a breath, looking down. “I picked the painting I did because it reminded me of places that make me feel like I’m home, of fishing trips I used to take, of the woods and the light in the trees.” He shrugged. “It’s special.”

His voice rumbled in a way that Frank felt through his whole body and he nodded. By Bill standards, that was quite the admission, so Frank would absolutely take that. “Do you remember the art show I was hoping to do?”

“The day you did the sketch.” Bill nodded, his eyes flicking over Frank’s face. His eyes were dark, intense. “Are you doing it?”

Frank fought down the giddiness in his stomach, the roiling sea of excitement and nerves splashing together with his glass of wine. Getting on stage and tearing his own pants off? Doable. Telling one man who he’d probably rather be kissing that he’d gotten into an art show, apparently more complicated. “I got the email at dinner, just before my shift. I’ve been invited to show at a gallery in November.” It felt good to say out loud, to put it into the little world they shared in this room. It hit differently with Bill, maybe because Frank knew what the paintings meant to Becca, and that Bill didn’t seem to be an art lover and yet he’d still appreciated something in Frank’s art.

Bill leaned forward to toast, his lips cracking into a smile. “That’s great!” They clinked their glasses together. “You deserve it. You’ve painted some really beautiful things. And that’s a lot coming from me, I don’t even like art. Except for yours,” he added hastily.

Frank searched Bill’s face, the smile warming him. The lights in the room highlighted the twin streaks of gray in Bill’s beard. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Bill brushed his hair over his ear and Frank watched the movement of his fingers as he settled his hand back on his leg. “You excited? Or nervous?”

“All of it.” Frank sipped at his wine, his smile only getting wider. “Maybe you’re good luck. You were my last art sale before this happened, after all.”

“So that’s why you keep talking to me.”

“No.” He sure hoped that wasn’t what Bill thought. “Although it’s a nice bonus.” Frank stretched out one leg, placing his foot on Bill’s thigh. Forward, but Frank didn’t love subtlety nearly as much as he pretended to. “And for the record, I talk to you because I want to.”

Bill stared down at Frank’s leg and then back to Frank’s face. “Are we breaking rules?”

“I’m off the clock. We make the rules.”

Bill drew a shaky breath and put his hand on Frank’s ankle, his fingers trailing along Frank’s skin. His hand was sweaty, hot. He’s nervous.

Frank shivered, not even because of the air conditioning in the room for once. The silence hung between them like an expanse of stars, the sound swallowed by the mechanics of the universe. And yet oddly comforting, in such an enormous space, to feel connected to someone else, even if just by a thread of touch. Frank felt an urge to paint that feeling, that expanse of stars, the spheres of matter hurtling through it all, the pull that bound planetary bodies to their suns, their moons.

He watched Bill, the way he almost relaxed into the chair, his shoulders still held up too high. As much as Frank loved talking, there was something to these kinds of moments, the ones where they just could be. Frank breathed out and closed his eyes, letting himself feel Bill’s touch. Bill shifted his hand and pressed a thumb into the arch of Frank’s foot. Relief he didn’t know he needed flooded him, with those damn shoes finally off.

“I should be paying you,” Frank murmured. He had a plan, but he felt it crumbling with the news of the art show, and the way Bill’s fingers ran along his skin. Rough, hesitant, but gaining confidence with every moment.

Bill grunted as his other hand joined the first, running his thumbs firmly along the bottom of Frank’s foot. “Tell me more about this art show.”

Frank thought he’d melt into the seat, and wondered if maybe he should have put his clothes on first. That would have been more relaxing than his back sticking to this chair. “I’ve been trying to get in this gallery for years.” Frank threw his head back and laughed. “I keep wondering if it’s a dream.”

“I could pinch your ankle I guess, see if you’re asleep.”

“I’m good.” Frank held his glass of wine in his hands, relaxing into the seat. Bill started to uncurl, his posture softening, and Frank felt a hum of triumph. “I really wanted you to know. Because you’ve been really supportive. It’s a gallery show. Possibly good money. But even better, a chance at getting to set up in a gallery on a contract basis, which would get me a lot of business.”

Bill set his wine down on a small table next to the chair, regarding Frank. “What’s next if you make good sales?”

Frank slumped a little. “I haven’t thought that far ahead. With any luck, I’ll make enough to eventually set up a gallery full time. Maybe make it my job full time.” Wouldn’t that be the life? It was more than he dared hope for.

“Sounds… nice.”

He pulled his foot back, slowly, feeling Bill’s hand tense up before he withdrew. The warmth lingered on Frank’s skin. He got to his feet. He started to move to the music, subtle movements, unbuttoning his shirt. He had thought he’d be Armond here, and he’d work his way into being Frank. He moved closer to Bill, smelling a faint hint of his shampoo. Sweat, but not in a bad way. In a way that was intoxicating, as was the realization that he didn’t want to be anyone but himself when he was with Bill. Maybe he wasn’t even capable of it. Bill wasn’t like anyone he’d met before.

Why couldn’t Frank just make it easy and ask Bill on a date? He told himself that it’s because he’s an artist, that he never does anything by halves, because he wanted to do one last dance. 

No, none of that really held up when Frank looked at it. He wanted to break off this whole customer thing once and for all. No customer rule doesn’t exist if there’s no customer. What better place to do that than one where it was safe to kiss, to touch? But Frank also had to admit that he liked the attention, here. What if he broke off the customer side and that’s all Bill had wanted?

That didn’t fit, though. Bill seemed like he wanted more and Frank knew that he himself wanted more, too. Had it really been so long that Frank had forgotten how to even start anything resembling a relationship?

The song playing faded out, and Adam Lambert’s For Your Entertainment started. Oh, this was going to be too much to resist.

In that moment, Frank let go of trying to keep up a persona and tried to just be himself and a stripper at the same time. He took a step forward, knowing it would have been more dramatic with the shoes but also, Frank never wore heels outside of the club.

He walked in close to Bill, putting his foot on the chair between Bill’s knees and leaning in. “How much of that last routine did you see?” he asked.

“Everything, I think.” Bill’s face looked red and Frank was certain it wasn’t just the wine.

“Okay.” Frank finished the buttons on his shirt and slid it off his shoulders, dropping it to the floor next to Bill’s chair. “The thing is, I’d planned on dancing for you.” He pulled his foot away and heard Bill let out a breath. Frank dropped to his knees in front of Bill. “A little dance. And I’m still going to. But not like I thought. There’s no routine. If I’m honest, I’m having a really hard time putting on the face with you.” Frank chuckled as he put his hands on Bill’s thighs, raking his fingers along them. “But it’s the job, usually.”

“It’s work.” Bill hesitated. “I get it. Take it your ex didn’t get it.”

Frank flinched. “He would have hated this.” He sat back, pulling his hands away. It took the wind right out of him, to think about Salim. “I was still a medic when I was with him. I lived for the adrenaline, and that’s a lot of stress for anyone, and for their partner. I don’t live for that anymore.”

“I think maybe you still do, it’s just different. Maybe it’s why you keep thinking you want to dance.”

Oh. Oh god. Bill was right. He didn’t know how to just slow down, to be. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Well, you’re an adult and if it works for you, fine with me. But you can drop all the… sexy bullshit.”

“I’m always going to be full of sexy bullshit.”

“No, not like that.” Bill set his wine down and pushed Frank’s hands away. “I don’t even like talking. I don’t know what the fuck you’re going to think of me when we walk out of here. I can’t do all this subtle shit, and you hardly even know anything about me.”

Oh that was it. Frank folded his legs under himself and got to his feet. “You hardly talk, I don’t know what you like,” he shot back. He let out a sigh of frustration. “You’re like this enigma wrapped up in a hard shell. You seem to see me, but you won’t let me see you.”

Bill’s eyebrows knit together as tightly as his lips pressed to each other. “I don’t connect to people. That’s why I sit in a corner.”

“I’m not asking you to come out of the corner. I’m asking you to talk to me.” 

“It’s not that easy!” Bill put his wine down and got to his feet, pacing over to turn off the music. He stared at the display. “Can you put on the song from the night you bashed your head into my skull?”

Frank reached past Bill to find the song and Bill moved back to the chair, like it was his place of safety. “I like good food. I like taking care of things myself. I build things out of metal, little machines, I want to know how things work. I like guns, growing my own food, chickens, the outdoors, and playing the piano. I’m weird to my neighbors which is about to get even more weird thanks to Steve. I have a fucking crazy bunker full of shit under my basement because I’m always waiting for something to go wrong. Constantly. I liked working from home because I could just be left the fuck alone.” Bill crossed his arms, defiant. “The problem is that I come in here, and here’s you. I don’t know what you want from me.”

Frank folded his legs under himself and got to his feet. “I’m interested in you. And all the stuff you just said… that actually all sounds pretty cool.” It wasn’t what he expected, but more than anything, it all made him more curious. It didn’t quite all make sense, but Frank certainly wasn’t going to be bored. “Maybe you could teach me to shoot, I’ve never been good at it.”

Bill snorted, dropping back into the chair. “Now you’re being nice.”

“I’ll buy my own ammo. And I bet your cooking will blow my mind.“ Frank chuckled, sitting down in the chair across from him. “I’d had a whole idea that I’d dance, and then I’d get dressed, and we’d get the fuck out of here.”

“I don’t need all that. I know this is what you do, and I respect that. But just let me see you.” Bill let out a heavy huff of breath. ”I’m not a fucking customer anymore, and we both know it.”

Frank blinked, looking away. Bill was right. And suddenly he felt self conscious, vulnerable. He paced over to his suitcase and pulled on a gray t-shirt. “You’re right. I can’t cross these kinds of lines with customers.” He pulled in a breath, turning back to Bill. Every time this had happened, it had fallen apart, and the stakes had never been higher.

Bill shifted, the black vinyl chair creaking as he moved. “So what am I?”

Frank could feel his blood pressure rising, the way it echoed in his ears. He took his time to reply as he walked back to Bill, the hard floor cold under his feet. “What do you want to be?”

Bill drew in a breath, poised on the edge of an answer. Frank stepped up to Bill, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’m asking you.”

Bill looked up at Frank, and breathed out a single word that Frank thought he’d misheard. What it sounded like Bill breathed was yours. 

Frank leaned down, hovering just outside of Bill’s reach before moving in. He wanted to kiss him, needed to kiss him, but what if they kissed, and everything went wrong-

Fuck it. He moved to close the gap, then Bill surged forward to meet his lips and Frank thought he’d collapse with the relief of the touch, of that point of connection between them finally made tangible. All his doubts disappeared as sparks went off behind his eyelids as he closed them, feeling ablaze with the intensity of their kiss. Their lips locked together and it was messy, clumsy, perfect, alive. Bill tasted of the wine, his beard pressed into Frank’s.

Bill’s hand reached out to grasp Frank’s arm and he got to his feet, meeting Frank at his level. Frank thought his senses would overload. He wrapped his arm around Bill’s back, embracing him, and the world spun away as he slid his other hand to the back of Bill’s neck. Bill fit so well in his arms, like this is where they were supposed to be. Frank laughed to himself that they were the same height. Frank kissed like he was starving, like he’d found the perfect meal. But more than that, kissing him made Frank see stars, fireflies, a million bright points of light. The distance of the stars closed, blurring into a blinding light.

I’m blinded by the light. I can’t sleep until I feel your touch.

Frank drank it all in and that little restless part of him stilled and reveled in the rush of it, of Bill’s fingers digging into his arm. His kisses were sloppy, wet, he hadn’t done this much, if at all. But none of that mattered here because all of the bullshit was gone. He was glad he’d put on the t-shirt, given that Frank was sure he would explode if Bill’s hands pulled at him like that without that one thin barrier of cloth separating them. The tension of waiting finally faded, but on it’s heels came a new tension. He wanted more. Bill’s jeans rubbed against Frank’s bare legs. Definitely should have put on pants. 

Frank withdrew from Bill’s lips, shaking. He reached up a hand and caressed Bill’s cheek, resting his forehead against Bill’s. Finally, whatever had been nagging at him settled, grounding him. He closed his eyes and brushed Bill’s hair aside.

“Maybe I should get changed and we should get out of here?”

Bill nodded, letting go of Frank’s arm. “Probably should have led with that.”

“Yeah.” Frank laughed. He had absolutely no idea what they’d do next. Late meal? Drinks? Back to Bill’s? To Frank’s? God had Frank even cleaned his apartment?

Fuck it. Frank captured Bill’s lips in another kiss, pressing him up against the door. Bill’s hands moved to Frank’s hips, holding him there. And now Frank was on fire all over again. “Feel like we’re over dressed,” he managed.

“You’re barely even dressed.” Bill’s hands wrapped around Frank’s back.

Frank closed his eyes, breathing in Bill, letting himself get carried away in this singular, quiet moment.

The intercom in the room blared a warning tone and Bill flinched in Frank’s arms. The tone was followed by Mindy’s voice. “Code nine cardiac, immediate medical assistance requested to the bar. Repeat, code nine cardiac, immediate medical assistance to the bar.”

Frank could hear the quiver in her voice but Tess had trained her well. Damnit. He pulled away from Bill. “I have to go.“

Bill waved him off. “I’ll follow.”

Frank didn’t have time to register anything beyond distant relief that Bill went with it, as he dashed out of the room. The floor felt cold under his feet, but no one called a code nine for nothing.

That old feeling came flooding back, intense, pushing every other thought aside except the one that mattered the most, the one he couldn’t afford to let fall to the side. It shot through him like electricity and he let it propel him forward on his bare feet. He hoped no one had spilled a drink on the floor.

There hadn’t even been time to let it all sink in, but much like having a meal back in his paramedic days, a moment of peace couldn’t go without an interruption.

He could hear the sound of Bill’s shoes pounding behind him, present and solid. He and Bill would have plenty of time later, but now, he had to make sure that someone else had their plenty of time, too.

So Frank ran like someone’s life depended on it.

Chapter Text

Bill couldn’t even be annoyed. Not when Frank jumped into action like he did, not when he moved so confidently. Even more so than when he was stripping; it was clear that Frank had many more years as a paramedic than as an exotic dancer. Not to say that Frank wasn’t a smooth dancer (he was), but his movements now were so integrated into him that Bill wondered how anyone could move that efficiently in that outfit. Or lack thereof.

Bill couldn’t say that he entirely understood the urge to always have to save someone else. But he appreciated that Frank had it, even if Bill himself couldn’t relate well. Frank moved with a purpose, a focused determination, the cadence of his walk completely changing to one geared towards reaching his goal. 

He followed Frank back out into the club, where a crowd gathered around the bar, milling about. Bill slowed at the sight of it. Too many people crowded together made his stomach churn, but he swallowed down the discomfort and forged forward. Not much else he could do but hide in the bathroom until the emergency was over, which wasn’t his style, either. He hated people but he hated backing down even more. Once more into the breach. Or something like that. 

“Move!” Frank snapped, pushing his way into the crowd. “Tess!” he hollered.

“She’s not here!” Joel called back from somewhere in the crowd. “I’ve got the AED.” A pause. “I can handle it.”

Frank snorted. “I’m handling it.”

Bill made his way into the crowd behind Frank, feeling the press of people. He followed in Frank’s wake, making his way through the crowd. They burst from the crowd, Bill at Frank’s heels, to find Joel crouched down next to an older man laying on the floor.

Frank came to a complete stop, a pause that caused Bill to stop short to avoid crashing into him. Then Frank was back in motion as he dropped down across from Joel. “Fuck,” he muttered, reaching out to feel for a pulse.

Bill hung back, watching. There wasn’t anything he could do to help here, so he’d see if anything needed to be done. He’d taken enough first aid to be casually useful, but he’d just slow Frank down. That was the last thing he wanted to do. That would top all of his other strip club crimes put together. 

“You don’t have to do this,” Joel said as Frank pulled the AED case away from him and opened it.

“No, I’ve got it. Where’s Tess?” He leaned down to listen to the man’s breathing, or presumed lack thereof.

“Had to run out for something. We called 911.”

Frank looked up at a man standing at the edge of the crowd. He had tears on his face. “Jeff, over here.”

The man nodded and dropped down next to Frank. “What do you need?”

“Now, nothing.” Frank’s hands never stilled as he sorted out the AED leads. “I might need you for rescue breaths. Any training?”

“A little.” Jeff’s voice shook, a hand reaching for the man on the floor then stopping before he pulled back. Someone Frank knew, then. Maybe regulars. Bill dimly remembered them as the couple that Frank had talked to on Bill’s first night at the club. Frank had seemed pretty familiar with him. How was he taking this? He studied Frank’s face but couldn’t read anything. A little bit of shimmery purple he’d missed caught the light.

Frank yanked open the man’s buttoned up Hawaiian shirt and pulled it aside, then cut his t-shirt off with a pair of scissors from the kit. He handed Jeff a shaver from the kit. “Shave his chest here and here.” Frank indicated two spots. “Move fast.”

The man nodded and started working while Frank set up the machine. “The AED will check his heart rhythm,” he continued. “If it’s not good, I’m going to have to start CPR. It’s going to be brutal. You can leave if you have to. Tell Joel, he’ll get you out.”

The man’s hands shook as he shaved, but he worked fast. “I’m not going anywhere.”

It dawned on Bill what he could do to help. Since Joel was down there, he started turning his attention to something he could change. 

“Back!” he barked, gesturing at the crowd. “Clear the way from the door!” No matter what happened, the arriving medics would need access, and this crowd wasn’t going to help. The response times in this county were slow enough as it was without these probably drunk assholes making a mess of it.

“You heard him, back up!” Joel added, nodding his approval as he got to his feet and started working on moving the crowd on the other side. “And put that fucking phone away!”

Bill alternated between clearing a path and looking back to Frank, who was peeling the backing off of the pads. He affixed them to the man’s chest and side. He pressed a button on the machine and it announced, “Analyzing heart rhythm. Do not touch the patient.” It beeped then paused. “Shock not advised. Begin CPR.”

Frank rolled his shoulders back and got up on his knees, placing one hand then the other on the man’s chest and locking his elbows. The first of the compressions caused a horrific crack, and Bill couldn’t help but wince. The other man also flinched, sitting back. A woman looked like she was going to pass out, falling to the ground.

“Joel!” Bill didn’t want to grab a woman and drag her away.

“I’ve got it.” Joel hooked his arms under the woman’s armpits and pulled her to the side. “Keep the door clear,” he called back.  

The cracks continued as Frank put his whole body into each compression, his timing precise. A metronome. A heartbeat.

“Out of the way!” Tess shouted, pushing her way in even as Bill started to clear people away from the entrance again. She looked at the man on the ground and swore. She reached out and put her hand on the should of the other man. He reached up and took her hand, crying.

Bill looked back to Frank’s determined face. It might have been almost funny if it hadn’t been so serious, a stripper in shimmering purple shorts and a gray t-shirt, his mouth set in a hard line. Tess stepped forward with a medical kit and pulled out a mask, fitting it over the man’s face and breathing into it.

Bill assumed that Tess had walked plenty of people through this sort of thing when she worked in dispatch, it made sense that she’d know what to do.

The machine announced, “Analyzing heart rhythm. Do not touch the patient.”

Tess pulled back, and Frank sat back, rubbing his hands against his face. “Come on, fucking convert.”

“Shock not advised. Begin CPR.”

Frank checked for a pulse, then went back to doing chest compressions. He threw his whole body into it, an immense amount of force. Bill wondered how he pushed out the sound of the music in the club to keep time.

Tess stared at Frank a moment, glancing to the other man and back. The other man had now started to cry, and the sound of the cracking had dimmed to a quieter yet still unsettling sound. “Frank-“ she started, but he shook his head.

“No, I’m not giving up,” he growled through gritted teeth.

After what felt like minutes but was probably seconds, the machine made another announcement to stop CPR as it ran another analysis cycle.

The room went quiet except for the ever present music and that was when Bill heard it.

“Come on, Dad, don’t fucking do this,” Frank murmured, sitting back hard on his heels.

Bill froze. This was the worst possible scenario. This was his father. The realizations hit him rapid fire: this was the couple from his first night here. This was Frank’s father, Erika’s father. Then that other man was Steve’s father. Bill didn’t know how to comfort Frank, or how to make this better. He felt sick, the pressure rising in his chest. 

When Bill’s father had died, it had been distant. It had been his mother’s grief more than his own. And Becca’s grief.

The machine announced: “Shock advised. Charging. Do not touch the patient.”

Frank rubbed at his face, then moved his hand to hover over the machine. Bill felt lost.

“Deliver shock now,” the machine announced and Frank smashed the button on the AED.

Frank’s father jerked with the shock and his partner let out a ragged breath.

“I can’t,” he said, shaking his head. “Not like this.”

Bill knew what he had to do, which was to do exactly what he did best sometimes. Be an asshole. “Move!” he roared, and felt the satisfaction of people scattering. The sirens started in the distance and at the rate it was going, it was going to take everything. He started clearing a path to the door, and he and Joel each started herding people in different directions.

He started moving chairs and tables to create a boundary, and Joel moved in to help, as did the other bartender. Monday? Mandy? Whatever the fuck her name was. The room filled with the sound of dragging furniture.

The machine beeped. “No shock advised. Resume CPR.”

Bill looked over his shoulder as Frank reached out and checked for a pulse. “Fuck!” It was somewhere between a strangled cry and a shout. Frank started CPR again. Sweat beaded on his forehead and he moved like a robot, mechanical, precise.

The machine again announced a shock and Frank hit the button so quickly that he started to lose his balance. His father’s body jumped harder now and Frank hovered. Bill couldn’t keep watching the crowd and Frank, so he stopped watching Frank and kept building a barricade to the door. It wouldn’t be long, now. He hoped.

Behind him, Frank let out a choked sound. “Heartbeat and breath.”

Bill looked over his shoulder as Frank reached out across his father’s prone form and took the other man’s hand, squeezing.

Bill turned back to the door. Family like this didn’t make sense to him. It didn’t fit, and he felt like an interloper in someone else’s life. He could hear the ambulance pulling up and he looked over at Joel, who nodded.

“I’ll lead them in if you can keep it clear,” Bill said. He made his way to the front door, flinging it open as the ambulance pulled up. Two people jumped from the ambulance, a woman and a man. The man made eye contact with Bill and he faltered. Someone had seen him here. He drew in a breath, then held the door as they unloaded stretcher from the back. The first paramedic nodded to him as they approached. “Where?”

“This way.” Bill made his way back into the club, the medics following. Thankfully, the crowd had stayed out of the way.

Frank looked up at their approach. “Thank fuck. He’s got a heartbeat, thready. Three rounds of CPR, two shocks administered.”

“We’ll get him loaded and prepped,” the man promised, dropping down next to Frank. He prepped an IV and slid it into the man’s arm. “You okay?” he asked, glancing over at Frank.

“It’s my dad,” Frank managed. He looked helpless now and Bill realized what it felt like when you looked at someone and felt heartbroken for them. Bill’s chest hurt just watching and he couldn’t imagine how Frank felt. “Zachary Brightman, 80 years old, no previous cardiac incident history.”

Bill could hear Frank’s voice fighting to stay level. 

“Rithu, you’ve got this?” the man asked, and the other medic nodded, hooking up a bag of saline to the IV. The man put an arm around Frank. “Do you need to come to the hospital? Got a blanket in the truck.”

Frank shook his head. “No. I’m good.” He blinked away tears. “This is a new low for me being a mess.”

“I think you get a pass on this one.” He looked over at Tess, stripping off his gloves and replacing them. “Take care of him, Tess.”

“Yeah I’ve got it.”

“Jorge, this is Jeff,” Frank said, indicating the man who had backed up. “Take him with you.” Frank got to his feet. “He’s with the best,” he said to Jeff.

There was something in their back and forth that rubbed Bill the wrong way but he didn’t know what to do with that.

“I’ll get him there. We’ll intubate in the truck.” Jorge nodded to Rithu and they rolled Frank’s dad onto the backboard and lifted him onto the stretcher.

Jeff reached into his pocket and passed something over to Frank. “Take my car if you need.”

Frank nodded and waved him on. “I’ll see you at the hospital.”

Jeff jogged after the paramedics and Frank staggered towards the bar, Bill following. Frank leaned hard against the bar, holding up the keys that Jeff had passed him. His hand shook and the keys tumbled from his hand, skittering on the floor

Bill bent over to retrieve them at the same time Frank did, but this time Bill pulled backwards instead of up and narrowly avoided Frank’s head colliding with his. He dropped the keys on the bar. “I’m driving you to the hospital.”

“Bill-“

“No.” Bill shook his head. “You’re shaking so much you can’t hold the damned keys. You shouldn’t be driving. It’s not a question.”

“He’s right,” Tess added.

“Can you get that car back to their house?” Bill asked and Tess nodded. He pushed the keys across the bar.

Frank looked defeated but he nodded. “Fine. Okay. Follow me.” He started back towards the back room, his whole body full of tension, and Bill followed him back to the room they were in before. It hit different, now, with that behind them.

“There’s nothing I can do by hurrying,” Frank noted. “So I’m going to get dressed.” He went to the couch and pulled off the shorts and a black thong he had under it. Bill looked away. After everything that happened, that was certainly just too much. Bill’s mind was elsewhere now, about getting Frank out of here and to the hospital to be with his family.

“Look, you just saw me give CPR to my dad in a pair of fucking booty shorts.” Frank dug around in the suitcase as Bill focused anywhere but on Frank. “You can watch me put on the most boring pair of underwear I own.”

Bill glanced back over as Frank pulled on a pair of light blue boxers, then his jeans. He kind of liked Frank’s boring underwear. Frank pulled on a green button up shirt but didn’t button it. He threw on a pair of running shoes, no socks, and threw everything else into the suitcase. He pulled his phone out and stuffed it into his pocket, then zipped the suitcase shut. “Let’s go.”

Bill understood getting to business, so he didn’t ask any questions. He took the suitcase out of Frank’s hand. They walked back into the club where the crowd had disbursed, but everyone fell silent and stared at them as they entered the room. Frank held his head up high and Tess intercepted them, giving Frank a hug.

“How’re you doing?”

“Shitty.” He wrapped his arms around her and Bill felt a pang that he hadn’t even thought about how to comfort him. He didn’t know how.

This was going to ruin everything. He was going to ruin everything.

But that was a problem for future him, since past him had decided to take Frank to the hospital, leaving present him with a world of new problems. Emotional stuff, trying to read someone else’s mental state, not his thing. Driving the hospital and maybe staying for a bit, that he could do.

Tess let go of Frank. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I went to get you a cake.”

Frank cracked a strained smile. “Can I eat it later?”

“You bet. I’m saving it for you. I also let Dani know what’s up.” She turned to Bill. “And thanks.”

“It’s not a big deal,” he muttered.

“Next time you’re in all of your drinks are on me. Start planning for it.”

Bill shrugged and he and Frank headed out through the front door.

“If you need anything, let us know,” Joel said. “Although I know that’s shit because no one ever knows what they need.”

Frank stopped for a moment at the counter. “Send Jeff a few pizzas when he’s home. I can live off cold tacos and string cheese.” Frank shook his head. “I mean, thanks.”

They headed outside and Frank let out a long breath. “I appreciate the ride.”

“It’s fine.” Bill opened the door for Frank and waited for him to get in, trying to figure out what to say. He couldn’t come up with anything so he waited for Frank to put his seatbelt on, then closed the door gently. He put the suitcase in the back seat then walked around the truck and got in.

In the seat beside him, Frank held his phone in his hands, sending out texts. “I have to make sure everyone knows,” he said. “Once Mel knows, everyone will know.”

“Who’s Mel?” Bill asked, starting the truck. Phone calls would be better for this, but he didn’t want to tell Frank that. He assumed his family had their own ways they liked to communicate. 

“My sister. Older than me, younger than Erika.” Frank set his phone down and rested his head backwards. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be driving. My head feels like it’s going to explode.”

“Wish I could do more.”

“You’re here.” He paused. “I know this is a lot.”

Bill didn’t know what to do with that and he didn’t know how to do small talk, so he reached out and turned the radio. Cyndi Lauper’s Time After Time was playing and Frank reached out to turn it up, humming quietly along to it, then lifted his voice into a soft song. His voice was rough, shaking, but there was a good voice under all of the strain. Possibly an exceptional voice. Maybe a bit too on point for the moment. Bill didn’t mind. 

Bill sung along, picking up the lower vocal part. He glanced over at Frank, lit only by passing streetlights. He swallowed the lyrics. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I think I’m too numb.” He let out a shaky breath. “I broke at least two ribs and his sternum.”

“But you saved him.”

“Did I? I might have done more damage than anything else.”

Bill knew enough about CPR to know that Frank had no choice. “If you had to guess his chances, what would you think?”  

“I don’t know.” Frank fidgeted with his phone in his hands. “Bodies are fragile.”

“What if he was any other patient? If you could take the emotions out of it? You did this for years.”

“That’s the thing. This part wasn’t my problem. I go to a scene, I work a patient, I transport. Move to the next.” Frank stared at out the window. “I saw a lot of grief and it’s terrifying, and now I feel like it’s going to be mine to carry. I don’t know how to untangle fact from hope at this point. Conceptually easy. Emotionally messy.”

Now this feeling Bill understood. “Yeah, I get that.” He paused. He couldn’t believe he was about to say it. “I can stay at the hospital for a bit with you if it helps. I’m not great at this stuff but I make a good rock.”

Frank reached over and put his hand on Bill’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Bill forced his nerves into submission and took Frank’s hand, holding it for a moment. He squeezed, the only reassurance he could offer. It felt insufficient, especially for someone that was glad that Bill was there for him. 

Frank squeezed back. “God why is the hospital so far away?” He didn’t wait for an answer, instead just picking back up quietly singing the song. Bill pulled his hand back and put it on the wheel, gripping it tight as if that would make them get their faster. He didn’t want to let go, but he had to. Frank set his hand on Bill’s leg and Bill let that warmth sink into him. He like dot think maybe it helped Frank feel less alone. Something felt bottled up in Frank and Bill started to worry when it would bubble over. 

If you fall I will catch you, I will be waiting

Time after time

Bill sped up and focused on getting to the hospital, and whatever news would come with it. 

Chapter Text

Was I good enough? Was I fast enough?

Frank’s heart thudded in his chest. He didn’t miss these doubts, these thoughts. The uncertainty, the adrenaline fading out to reveal all of the insecurity, the wondering if he’d done the right things. All amplified by this being his dad.

Crack.

It echoed in his ears, still. The necessary violence of it, one he’d performed so many times it was automatic. Jeff’s shaking breaths. Frank pictured the tube down his throat, the leads on his chest, his slack face as the medical team worked on him. 

Frank pushed it all down, as far as it would go, and shut the door on it. He had to focus on the facts, because anything else would send him into a spiral that he’d have to fight his way out of. 

He busied himself with the actions. The texts. His sisters generally preferred text, as did Steve. But his mother… god. He didn’t want to call her. But he’d have to. The group text for the family was going crazy. Frank had texted Jeff early on and let him know to not worry, that he’d take care of everything. He’d confirmed the details to everyone and let them know he was headed to the hospital.

He dialed the phone with shaking fingers as Bill stopped at a red light. She picked up after the first ring. “Jeff called.” She’d been crying. “Headed to the hospital?”

Frank nodded even though she couldn’t see him, holding the phone up to his ear. “Yeah. I got a ride over there.”

“Good.” She drew in a breath. “Are you okay?”

“I just cracked Dad’s ribs while he was laying on the floor of a strip club, do I sound okay?” He snapped, then sighed, a weariness forcing its way into him. “I’m sorry.”

She snorted. “I’d be worried if you weren’t snapping a little,” she chided. His mother was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry you had to do that.”

Crack. Crack. “Yeah. I did the best I could. He’s got a chance. But god. It’s just…”

“Be easy on yourself,” she offered, pulling away to blow her nose. “I’m here if you need anything. Duncan is bringing the kids over, including Clark. Mel and Erika will meet you at the hospital. Have you talked to Steve?”

This, this is where Frank got his tendency to go into crisis mode. Her tone reminded him that he still had everything under control. And with his fast the news spread, no doubt Jeff had also found his crisis legs. “He and Gabby are headed over.” Bill flinched at that and Frank squeezed his knee.

“Hang in there, keep me updated when you can. I’ll be up late at this rate.”

“Thanks, Ma.” Frank drew in a breath. He wanted to tell her that he was scared, that he had forgotten what being this scared felt like, but instead he watched his own fear as if he were detached from it. “Talk to you later.”

As he hung up, his phone chimed another message and he looked at it. Becca.

Here if you need anything. Is my brother with you?

Yes. He’s taking me to the hospital. Frank sent the message then paused, looking over at Bill. The light turned green and it lit the determination on Bill’s face.

Tell him I’ll take care of the house and the chickens tomorrow if he needs to stay.

I will. And thanks.

“You look calm,” Bill observed.

“It’s calm or die some days.” He set down his phone but continued tracing the shape of it with his fingers. “Becca heard. Probably from Erika. She says she’ll take care of the chickens if you need.”

“Oh.” Bill glanced over at him. “I guess I can stay for a bit longer. If that’s okay.”

If that’s okay. Of course that was okay, that was more than okay, but it was more than Frank wanted to ask for. “That’s up to you. I don’t think you planned on your night becoming sitting in the hospital.” Frank managed a chuckle. “What a fucking disaster of a date.”

“What, you don’t take all the guys out to the hospital?”

Frank blinked, then laughed a little. “I can safely say this is a first.” The banter helped. It pulled him out of his head. He’d need that, with the hospital just around the corner.

This hospital had once felt like a home base, a place where he could get a moment of rest. Those precious, quiet moments after handoff but before he’d called dispatch to let them know he was clear. The lingering moment of quiet where he could take a deep breath, maybe get a candy bar out of the shitty vending machine that always required a bit of a kick.

A part of him anticipated that feeling, and he had to remind himself that it wasn’t coming. There was no calling dispatch and letting go.

Bill asked him a question and Frank didn’t catch it. “Sorry?”

“Entrance. Which entrance?”

“Oh. Best parking for a truck is by the north.”

“I can drop you off and meet you in a few minutes,” Bill said as he turned into the entrance and tackled the first speed bump too quickly. Frank bounced against the seatbelt’s restraint. “Fucking hate those things,” Bill muttered.

“Just park and come in, this place is a maze.” And the first thing Frank was going to do was ask for a private waiting room, the hospital had two that were tucked out of the way and Frank knew who to ask. “Parking garage is awful for trucks.”

“But I love blocking in Teslas in parking garages. Heh. That shit never gets old.”

Bill pulled into a parking space and put the truck in park, then turned it off. Frank recognized it as the quietest it would be for the rest of the night and leaned back in his seat, running his hands through his hair. “I need a minute. Just to collect.” Hurrying wasn’t going to change any outcome and they’d have him in the ER. He needed to go check on Jeff, but he’d need to have it together to be of any help.

“Sure.”

They sat in silence and Frank idly looked around, spotting an ambulance parked outside the ER. A16. Looked like maybe Jorge was still on the same ambulance as they’d been on together. Frank could almost hear the middle drawer on the right persistently rattling. He’d eventually taped a cotton ball in the runner to muffle the sound. He wondered if it was still taped in there.

He glanced over at Bill, feeling guilty for pulling him into this. “Last chance to back out. No hard feelings. It’s not like you’re taking off and leaving me the bill for dinner.”

“Ok, stop right there.” Bill unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to look at Frank. His eyes narrowed, the arch of his eyebrows dropping. “You’re bottling up a lot of shit right now. It’s easy now but it won’t be later. So fucking lose it if you have to, it’s just me here.”

Frank stared at him, then reached for his seatbelt. He didn’t know how to do anything else. He didn’t want Bill to see him lose it but it was just a matter of time before it happened. Did he know Bill well enough to let him see Frank like this? The thought of his father not making it hadn’t even occurred to him until that moment. He could handle his father in the hospital, but was he ready for what came next? After all of the push and pull he and his father had over the years, their fights, all because his father couldn’t be the person he wanted to be. Now he lived the life he wanted, and he could lose it.

A wave of helplessness washed over him, because Frank had already done everything that he could do. He’d followed all the right steps, done all the right things, but in the end all of the right actions couldn’t change what the outcome would be in the end.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not at work, you don’t have to pretend,” Bill muttered.

“I’ll deal with it however I want to deal with it,” Frank snapped. He didn’t need his emotions micromanaged.

“I’m not judging you! Jesus. I held all that shit back when my mom died, and it fucked me up.” Bill sighed. “I’m not here to sit quietly. You’re gonna figure that out really quick.”

Frank drew a breath as his phone buzzed in his lap. He ignored it. “Yeah, I noticed.”

“Good. Then let’s stop fucking around and get out of the truck.” Bill hopped out and walked around the truck. Frank unbuckled his seatbelt and reached for the door, pushing it open as Bill came around.

Bill caught the door and pulled it the rest of the way open, then stepped aside, tucking a hand into his pocket. Frank understood the gesture well enough; at the club, they’d been somewhere private. This wasn’t private. They might have to pass for more casual. Frank hopped out and stepped to the side. What he wanted was to just kiss Bill, for the reassurance it provided, for the way it made him feel confident and in control of something, even if it’s just his own actions. As he thought it, a car drove past them in the parking lot, and Bill shrunk in on himself. No, not now.

Frank slid past Bill and brushed a hand against his arm. He wouldn’t do anything overt, but the texture of the leather jacket under his fingertips reassured him for the brief moment of contact. Frank felt like he should want more, but then it came back.

Crack. Crack.

They walked into the nearest hospital entrance and Frank navigated the familiar corridors, Bill following a half step behind him and to his right. He glanced down at his phone as he walked, seeing that the most recent text had been from Tess.

On the bright side, people are dropping tips for you and you’re not even here.

He chuckled. Tess always knew what would help. He left the text alone, not wanting to slow down to reply. He shoved the phone into a back pocket as he turned the corner towards the side entrance of the emergency room. He spotted Jeff at once, pacing near a fish tank.

Jeff looked up, his eyes bright with tears, and he met them halfway, wrapping his arms around Frank and squeezing. Frank put his arms around his stepfather and hugged him. It reminded him of the first time he’d met Jeff, when he’d been too mad at his father to hug him, but Jeff had been there with open arms and a huge heart, and Frank had taken what comfort he could from that.

“Haven’t heard anything yet,” Jeff said, and Frank nodded.

“Yeah, that’s how it goes.” Frank stepped back and searched Jeff’s face. Strained, but holding it together. He looked exhausted.

“I thought we’d be celebrating the art show,” Jeff continued. “Zach won the bet, that you’d find out before dinner.”

Frank snorted. “I didn’t get the mail until after the bill was paid.”

“Eh. I’ll give him this one, then.” Jeff managed a smile. “We’re both really proud of you.”

“Thanks.” Warmth filled Frank. “I just want him to be here for it.”

Frank glanced over his shoulder to find Bill, who had stepped away and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets as he investigated a particularly large fish. Of course this would be awkward, this was Bill’s coworker’s dad. “Hey, Bill. This is my stepdad, Jeff.”

Bill looked up and straightened. “I figured.”

Jeff studied Bill for a moment. “You were clearing the way at the club.”

“Bill drove me here,” Frank added. “Left your car with Tess, she’ll get it home.”

Jeff held out a hand. “Thanks.”

Bill looked down at Jeff’s outstretched hand, and eventually took it. “Not a big deal.”

Jeff, being Jeff, pulled Bill into a hug and his eyes widened as he stared at Frank. There was a plea for help in his face, a look of alarm, but Frank just watched, vaguely amused. It wasn’t that he liked seeing Bill uncomfortable, not at all. But Bill didn’t completely squirm free, even if he didn’t return Jeff’s hug.

“Should have warned you that Jeff will hug a porcupine if it’s not fast enough,” Frank noted.

“I’m shit at personal space.” Jeff chuckled and stepped back, wiping at his face with a hand. “Sorry.”

“I’m not really a hugger.”

“Zach isn’t, either.” Jeff glanced over at Frank, and the look was clear. Of course he’d find the parallels between his father and Bill.

Nearby, a child broke out in an ear shattering screech and Frank flinched, looking around. “I’m going to get us moved out of this area.”

He went to the reception desk and thankfully found a familiar face. “Hey, Maggie!”

Maggie Cooper had worked at the hospital several years, and while Frank didn’t know her well, he’d at least talked to her enough times to feel comfortable approaching her.

“Frank!” She laughed, leaning back in her chair. Her curly dark hair bounced as she moved, a few gray hairs catching the light. “Was just about to go on break. You back on the job?”

He winced at the thought of that. “I’m not a glutton for punishment. Got a better gig.”

“Better than getting bled and puked on?”

Frank thought about all the other things that probably got on him. “Well, the pay is good.”

“Jorge said you’ve got a job at a club.”

“Yeah, I’m a stripper. You can say it.” There was a reassurance to a normal, everyday kind of conversation. All things considered, he supposed. That he considered this normal was probably insane.

“You said it for me.” She grinned. “What can I do for you?”

“My dad was just brought in, he’s in the ER. We don’t have status yet.”

“Oh shit, I’m sorry to hear that, hon. What’s the name? I can suss it out.”

“Zach Brightman. And I really appreciate it, although it’s not why I came over here.”

She tapped in some keys on the screen. “He’s in surgery. No details, you’ll need to wait for the doctor, but it’s going to be some time. What do you need?”

“Can we move into 128? I have a pretty big family, and if I’m being honest, I think it would be more comfortable for Dad’s husband if we just got out the public portion of the hospital.”

Realization crossed Maggie’s face and she nodded. “You’ve got it. It should be free, I’ll make a note for the doctor that you’re waiting there. Let me know if there’s any issues or if anyone hassles you. I’ll be back from break in a bit, but someone will be here. You know the routine, put the name on the door.”

He did, indeed, know the routine, and he was grateful for the support. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

He made his way back to Bill and Jeff. “We can take over a waiting lounge. A bit more private. Reception got it squared away.”

Bill slapped the magazine shut and set it down, standing, as Frank messaged the group chat directions on how to get to 128.

They walked back to the room, Frank breathing in the familiar scent of antiseptic and cleaning materials that permeated this wing. He could hear the sirens in the distance, the sounds of the hospital, the ever present hum through it.

Maybe a part of him missed it, a little. Yet another part of him looked at the sterile hallways, and longed for the colors and rhythmic sounds of the club. Even more so, he yearned for a brush in his hand. Years of going from chaos to sterile white spaces to cold tacos back to shootings… Well.

He hated the idea of his dad being confined here, that they’d probably cut his favorite Hawaiian shirt right off of him. His dad would hate that when he woke up. And Frank told himself that he’d wake up. Hope could be a lie, sometimes, but a vital one.

The door handle to room 128 was cold under his fingertips and he pushed it down, opening the door. The room had no windows, was currently dimly lit, and was blessedly quiet. Jeff looked like he’d collapse in relief as he entered and dropped down onto a couch, slumping over.

Frank pulled out a dry erase marker from a container in the room and stepped out to write Brightman Jacoby Family on the board. He ducked back in and dropped the pen back in its’ container. Bill had taken up a chair on the far side of the room. Frank recognized it as a position that would let him see everything.

He sat down in the chair next to Bill. “Thanks. For staying.”

“Would rather be celebrating your art victory over a steak and a glass of wine.”

Frank’s stomach rumbled ominously at the mention. “I’d fuck up a steak right now.”

“There a vending machine around here?”

“Not for steak, no.” Sadly, just the shitty vending machines that always jammed up. Maybe they’d fixed them. Maybe they hadn’t.

“Obviously. Any hospital vending machine would just serve overcooked overpriced slabs of garbage anyhow. May as well get a free lunch at Arby’s.”

Frank chuckled at the look of indignant disgust on Bill’s face at the thought of a steak vending machine. “Arby’s doesn’t have free lunch, it’s a restaurant.”

“They’re also closed in the middle of the night, so you get shitty trail mix.”

“Should be a vending machine around the reception desk. Go out to the right, then another right, and past the desk. If you get lost, you can ask the receptionist.”

Bill nodded, his eyes traveling over to where Jeff moved to lay on the couch, pulling his legs up and throwing one arm over his face. His gaze slide back to Frank. “You okay?”

Frank swallowed and nodded. He caught Bill’s meaning well enough, and held out his hand, giving Bill the first right of refusal.

Bill looked down at Frank’s hand. A moment passed and Bill placed his hand in Frank’s. Frank felt a sob well up and he shoved it back down. Frank squeezed Bill’s hand, reveling in the quiet comfort of it. Frank pulled in an unsteady breath, remembering Bill’s words. Frank’s mind reeled, spinning, trying to calculate if his dad would be fine, if he suffered any internal damage, brain damage, heart damage… if he’d ever be the same. What if he’d had a stroke? Or-

He focused on the feeling of Bill’s hand in his. No one could see them, here, and it meant everything to Frank that Bill would…

The door slammed open and Bill yanked his hand back, laying his hands onto his own legs. His back straightened to an uncomfortable degree and his head whipped around to see who entered.

Damnit.

Mel and Erika swept into the room, Erika clearly still in tears and Mel looking absolutely business-like as she held the door for her older sister. Frank got to his feet and hugged them both. Erika wore a t-shirt and sweatpants, like she’d been getting ready for bed, her hair a mess and her glasses stained in tears. Mel had managed to find some jeans apparently, but ones with a lot of holes, and a bright yellow t-shirt that said I can’t make everyone happy, I’m not a taco.

Jeff sat up and got to his feet. Frank noticed how much more slowly he was moving these days. Jeff and Frank’s father were both getting old. He stepped back to let them hug Jeff, then looked back at Bill who stood and started to lift his hand, then pulled back. A lump rose in Frank’s throat. 

“I’ll be right back. I’m just gonna go hit that vending machine,” Bill said, edging around the room.

Frank watched him go, a fondness filling him. Bill looked back over his shoulder at Frank, nodding once, before he turned back to the door.

“I’ll come with you,” Erika offered.

Bill pressed his lips together and Frank was sure he would say no, but then he nodded. “Fine, whatever.”

They made their way through the door before Frank could introduce them. Mel blinked then looked back to Frank. “What was that about?” Mel asked.

“Introverts. I think.” Frank sighed, frustrated. If Bill couldn’t handle a couple of family members, what would he do with all of them? Guilt followed the thought; this wasn’t Bill’s fault. Frank knew his family could be overwhelming but let Bill come anyway. He should have sent Bill home. Or warned him. Or… something. “It’s a long story. Dad’s in surgery, we’re waiting on more news.”

Mel nodded solemnly. “Mom’s got the kids for now. Steve should be here soon.”

Bill would just love that. But if Bill had to leave, Bill had to leave. This was a lot for any person.

“So how are you holding up?” she asked, turning to Jeff.

“Shitty.” Jeff shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’d rather know how Frank is holding up, given that he saved Zach’s life.”

“You what?” Mel blinked, then wrapped her arms around Frank all over again. “I’m so sorry. How are you doing?”

“Also shitty.” Crack. Frank could feel his legs getting unstable under him. “I think I need to sit down.” He moved unsteadily to a chair and dropped down into it. They’d have him intubated, hooked up to the 12 lead, hitting whatever drugs would keep him alive. Eyes closed, looking near to death.

“You didn’t introduce your friend,” she teased. “Mom would chew you out so hard.”

“He moved too fast. That’s Bill. He’s…” He didn’t know what to say. The guy I thought I’d be making out with right now? “Do you know about the paintings and Becca?”

“Ahhh that Bill, the infamous Bill.” She looked like a satisfied cat, and Frank found himself appreciating her calm demeanor. “I won’t pry, though. One thing at a time.” She reached into her giant purse and pulled out a bottle of water, holding it out. “Drink up, it’s going to be a long night.”

Frank took the water from her, the bottle cool and tangible in his hands. Especially after the exertion of CPR, where he could already feel a soreness starting in his body. He started drinking with one hand as he texted Tess with the other. Maybe I should have taken the cake, I’m starving.

I’ll send something over for you.

Bill’s headed to the vending machines for now, so no hurry. He wanted to tell her not to worry about it, but on the other hand, he never turned down food. He might have to run it off later.

If I had a dollar for every time you cleared a call late because one of you was fucking with that vending machine, I’d have at least $17.

Should I have warned him?

No, he’s smart. He’ll figure it out.

He bounced his foot on the floor, staring at his phone. Time moved like water when having fun, and like molasses when waiting in a hospital. He already missed Bill’s hand in his. 

Mel arranged herself on the couch next to Jeff, holding his hands in hers.

So Frank waited for news to find out if his father would live, die, or land somewhere in between.

Chapter Text

Bill sucked in a deep breath as the door closed behind him, glancing over at his unexpected vending machine partner. He had no clue why in the world Erika had decided going with him was a good idea.

“Hey. I’m Erika,” she offered. She didn’t hold out her hand, and Bill appreciated that. He didn’t trust people that were too friendly.

“Yeah. I know. My sister and her stupid phone.” He crossed his arms, pausing before he started on his way. “I don’t need help to go to the vending machine.” What he really didn’t need was another chatty family member. He knew the type, and he could see it all over Frank’s other sister. Probably Frank’s mom, too. And once Steve showed up… maybe he’d just tell Frank he’d see him later. Call him tomorrow to check in. This much family would be more than he could handle. Hell, some days Becca was his limit.

A ghost of a smile touched Erika’s lips. “I figured that two introverts could not talk together.”

“Huh.” Okay. He had to grudgingly admit he kind of liked this one. Almost. At least she wasn’t going to wiggle him into mindless jabbering conversation. He’d take that, especially as Erika was maybe not quite his sister’s girlfriend, but wasn’t exactly not his sister’s girlfriend, either.

Maybe he’d save a friendly if you hurt my sister I’ll end you for later. Maybe he’d get about the same sentiment in return. Bill had questions, questions he wanted answers to, ranging from how are you holding up to what’s Frank’s favorite food. He supposed the first one he knew the answer to (badly), and the second one… well there was a time and a place. This was not a time, nor a place.

Bill thought about when his mother died as they walked towards the vending machine. He’d also tried to hold it in and failed eventually. He’d had time to get used to the idea of his mother dying, and when the time came she died blessedly quick, not dragging it on. When it happened, he filed it away as something for him to deal with later. Later came two weeks after she’d died, and he finally lost it while playing her piano.

Becca had cried almost immediately, and Bill had just felt confusion. Why so upset over someone that had disowned you? Becca explained it’s because they’d never have that closure. She’d never know if her mother loved her anyway. And, Bill supposed, he understood that, since Bill didn’t always feel his mother’s love, either. Her mother mourned Becca as if she were gone, instead of as a disgrace. She’d put Bill through hell when Becca had almost died during the first round of leukemia.

Erika’s feet shuffled along the hospital floor and she sniffled, reaching into her pocket and producing a handkerchief. She blew her nose, a horrible honking sound, and stuffed it back into her pocket. “Sorry. Allergies.”

“Allergic to hospitals?”

A laugh escaped but she pulled it back. They wound their way past reception and down the hall to the vending machines.

He stared at the two vending machines, one for snacks and the other for drinks. He had no idea what people even liked to eat, all this food looked like mass produced garbage. He’d rather make his own truffles at home. “I don’t even know what people eat.”

“I will fuck up a Snickers. We’ll figure some other things out.”

Bill pulled out his wallet out and shoved his card into the slot before Erika could. Least he could do when they’re all going through so much shit. He wondered when he became nice, or whatever it was he was being now. It certainly wasn’t a trait he cultivated or even appreciated. He told himself it was probably just pride. Or that it was his idea to find a vending machine and now he had to follow through. “Go nuts.”

Erika went directly to the promised Snickers and the mechanism turned to drop the candy bar. She started entering more codes: a Twix bar, a granola bar, a few other items. Bill guessed that at least he should be grateful there was no Almond Joy in the vending machine. Erika entered another code and the machine attempted to dispense a can of Pringles and froze. She frowned and tried again, but the machine had become unresponsive.

Bill stepped up and mashed the keys. “Stupid bastard,” he muttered, trying the code for some trail mix. The coil spun and the trail mix started to fall… then stuck, awkwardly hanging. “Really?” Erika scuffed her foot at the bottom of the vending machine.

“Need help?” A man’s voice asked from behind them.

Bill didn’t turn to look, instead he looked the vending machine over. “No,” he growled, noticing a spot in the upper left corner where there were obviously a few handprints. He slammed the palm of his hand into the machine in the same spot.

All of the items dropped at once, along with a bag of Swedish fish.

“And never mind,” the man said. “The Swedish fish will double drop on a good day, though. Three for the price of two when you’re lucky.”

Erika rolled her eyes. “Jorge, how often are you at the vending machine?”

Oh, this guy again. He didn’t need this shit. He glared back over his shoulder, avoiding looking at him too closely. This tall dark and handsome was not anyone he wanted anything to do with.  

“Enough to be dangerous.” He put a hand on her shoulder and Bill bristled at the paramedic’s casual familiarity. Not that he had any right to, but this was the second time he’d shown up and been too at ease. “How you doing?”

“How do I look like I’m doing?”

“This guy bothering you?” Bill asked, stepping between them. Smarm to match Steve, Bill might have been impressed if he wasn’t so fucking annoyed.

“No.” She jerked a thumb at him. “This is Frank’s old partner.”

Bill blinked, narrowing his eyes. Did that mean what he thought it meant?

“As in work partner,” Jorge clarified.

“And he didn’t strangle you with a stethoscope?” Bill shot back.

Jorge grinned. “We have thick skins.”

Bill resisted the urge to tell him he could still bleed and reached down to sweep the snacks out of the vending machine. This wasn’t going to get them very far, but it would be better than nothing, for now.  

Jorge reached out and swiped his phone in front of a panel, entered the code for the Pringles, and then hit the machine right as the machine started. The item fell and he grinned, snapping it up as Bill juggled all the items in his hand.

Double fuck this guy.

“Thanks for the help at the club,” Jorge continued, popping open the can of chips and pulling one out. “Honestly, we lose a lot of time because people can’t get out of the way. It matters.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Bill didn’t need this guy thanking him.

“Take the compliment, Grumpy.” Jorge crunched a chip and waved, leaving the hallway.

Erika pressed her lips together. “You’d think he’d have a shift to finish. Paramedics are the worst. They think they’re all that and a can of chips.”

“Your brother was a paramedic.”

“My point exactly.” She swiped her phone on the drink machine and got several bottles of water out, until she couldn’t carry any more of them. “Let’s go.”

Bill stuffed items into his outer and inner pockets, careful not to put chocolate items on the inside where they might melt. He took a few bottles of water from Erika and tucked them under his arm.

“Brought a bag,” a woman called, popping up behind Bill. He almost dropped a bottle of water and she reached out to take it from him.

“Hey Maggie,” Erika greeted.

“Been a while!”

Something in her cheerful chirp caused time to slow down. Maggie. That was… No. Certainly not…

He stepped aside, turning, and found himself looking down at Margaret Cooper. Oh hell no. Oh anything but this. Maybe she wouldn’t recognize him. Maybe he’d make it out in one piece. He fought against the sinking feeling in his stomach.

She reached up and snagged the bottles of water from Erika’s arms, dropping them in the bag, then turned to look at Bill. Her eyes lit up and now it was too late. “Bill! I’ll be damned. Bill Kaplan. It’s been years.”

He winced. “Yeah.” High school, in fact.

“Oh shit!” Maggie blinked, looking from Bill to Erika and back. “Are you two dating?”

Bill and Erika stared at each other, frowning. “No,” they said together.  

“Oh good. That would be weird. Glad you’re both here. Sorry to hear about your dad. He was always pretty nice to me.” Maggie laughed, reaching out her hand for the bottles of water. Bill didn’t want to give any more of them up, but Erika plucked them from his arms and dropped them in the bag.

“Thanks.” Erika looked uncomfortable but not nearly as uncomfortable as Bill felt.

Maggie, at least, didn’t seem interested in making it any more awkward. She didn’t ask why he stopped talking to her after they slept together a single time, and she didn’t ask where he’d been. But the embarrassment of running into Maggie Cooper…

“If you need anything, I’m at the front desk.” She smiled. “Good to see you both.” She paused. “Is Jorge telling everyone about the free Swedish fish trick again? Because I’ll cut him.”

She didn’t wait for an answer and just headed back down the hallway, and Erika drew in a breath and leaned against the wall. “Why was that so weird?” she asked.

“Which part?”

“Where do you know her from?”

“High school.”

Erika nodded, thoughtful. “She’s my ex.”

Oh. Oh. Now that wasn’t even a diagram that Bill wanted to even remotely imagine. Great. So now he shared an ex with Erika. He took the bag from her. “Does the vending machine have beer?”

Erika scrubbed a hand over her face. “Oh shit. You didn’t.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Bill slumped. “I thought we weren’t supposed to be talking.”

“Yeah, let’s go back to that.”

Of course. Of fucking course.

In silent introvert agreement, they headed back to room 128, taking the long way around to avoid running into Maggie again. At least Frank hadn’t seen that. It’s bad enough anyone at all knew he’d slept with anyone ever, much less someone he hadn’t even been attracted to. Maggie had been pretty, and kind, but she hadn’t done anything for him except make him feel confused.

“Hey. I know what you’re thinking,” Erika said.

Bill frowned. “You don’t know shit.”

“You’re wondering if she ever talked about you.”

Of course he was wondering, but he didn’t know what would be worse. That she’d never mentioned him at all, or if she’d said something bad. It was so far back in the past that he wouldn’t have even thought of it if Erika hadn’t brought it up. “I don’t care.”

Erika ignored his statement. “She said you were really sweet. I wonder what happened.”

“People happened,” Bill muttered, glancing away.

“I was kidding.”

“I wasn’t.” He juggled the bag of snacks and started back down the hallway. Well, at least that wasn’t awful. He supposed. Sweet. Huh. Bill didn’t remember that version of himself.

They reached the room and entered. To his dismay, Jorge had already beat them back, and was hugging Frank. It hit Bill like a punch to the gut and he averted his eyes, turning to dump the snacks out on a table in the middle of the room. It seemed like so little, but it would have to do.

How could some people make physical contact so comfortable? Worst of all, Bill couldn’t shake the worry that Frank might not be okay with being with someone that wasn’t good at physical affection. Bill had no idea, but he took interest in a travel magazine until Jorge left. Spain seemed nice this time of year. He wasn’t even jealous, just disappointed in himself.

Jorge nodded to Bill as he passed and Bill finally pulled his eyes back to Frank who dropped down in his chair. He looked so defeated, so Bill went back to sit next to him, bringing a couple of the snacks along and setting them on the table. “Hungry? It’s all vending machine shit but it’s better than nothing.” Any port in a storm, Bill supposed, even if it was sad mass produced garbage.

Frank reached out and took the Swedish fish off the table. “Used to get these for free on a good day,” he said, flipping the bag in his hands. “Ate so many of them that my stomach’s upset just looking at them.”

“That guy said that. About the free ones.” Bill pushed his resentment aside. The club was different, the club was the job. Here? This was something else entirely, and Bill felt horribly underprepared for dealing with all of the shifting factors and people. He should just go home.

But how hard was it really, to hug someone? People did it all the time. Maybe it was kind of like learning to shoot a firearm, you just had to be bad at it to start.

“He says a lot of shit.” Frank set the Swedish fish down and picked up the trail mix. His hands shook as he tried to tear it open, and Bill could see an accident waiting to happen, the potential of nuts tumbling through the air escalating the longer he watched Frank’s hands.

“You’re gonna have nuts all over the room.” Bill reached out and pried it from Frank’s hands, carefully tearing the corner open and passing it back to Frank.

“There’s a joke there.” Frank mustered a smile and poured snack mix into his hand, then set the bag on the table. He shoved the handful into his mouth at once and chewed, closing his eyes.

He’s still holding back.

Bill grabbed a bottle of water and cracked the cap, handing it to Frank. Frank took a swig then tucked the bottle between his knees. And Bill watched Frank’s every move as he moved the water to a table and stood, starting to pace. Bill couldn’t take it anymore, he had to break this anxious cycle of whatever this was.

Fuck it.

“Can we step away for a minute?” Bill asked, glancing around. Everyone seemed to be having their own conversations, and Bill took that moment of quiet as what it was. Opportunity? Moment of silence before Steve arrived?

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just thought maybe we could talk.”

Frank nodded and snapped the water up off the table. “Come with me.”

They threaded their way out of the room and into the hallway, and crossed the hall into a phone room. It wouldn’t be complete privacy, but it would be enough. Had to be enough.

Inside the room, Frank maneuvered himself to lean against the desk in the room, setting the water down. “What’s up?”

Bill regarded him, the tension on his face. “You’re like a string about to snap.”

“Not sure what else I’m supposed to be. Today was supposed to be something else entirely.”

Bill pulled in a shaking breath and stepped to Frank, sliding his arms around his back and drawing him up against him. He didn’t know how to tell Frank that he could be “not fine” with him, so he spoke it with his body, his arms. He gathered Frank against him, pushing down the awkward feeling that came with it. He wasn’t qualified for this but he was too stubborn to give up. Bill Kaplan wasn’t a quitter, even in the face of whatever the fuck tonight had been.

Frank sagged into him, his arms sliding around Bill’s back. Bill could feel the relief coming off of him and Bill forced himself to relax, to drop his shoulders.

“Sorry it took me so long,” Bill murmured. “Shit at hugs.”

Frank let out a little laugh. “You could have fooled me.”

That warmed Bill, who stroked his fingers along Frank’s back. “How are you holding up?”

“How do you think?” Frank sighed. “Sorry. I can’t stop thinking about all of the things I might not get to do again. Dad and I used to go fishing. When I was younger I liked it. Then I hated it, around the time that Dad tried to get me to be-“ His voice broke, and for a moment Bill thought he might finally get upset as his breath brushed against Bill’s neck. “Well. What he wanted me to be. I’d refuse to go fishing for years. Just forgot the joy in that stuff, you know?”

Bill understood the feeling of having parents who wanted to shoehorn their children into a mold they weren’t suited for. What would Bill’s parents say now if they were here? Probably just disown him, too. Would he trade all of that for Frank being in his arms? Some sense of relief filled him that he’d never have to face that. “Yeah, I get it.”

“It took a long time to fix that. Lost a lot of years…” Frank buried his head against Bill’s neck and he breathed against Bill’s skin. “What if that’s it?”

Bill didn’t have an answer to that, so he just held Frank tighter. Maybe this is why he was here. A purpose. A protector.

“We didn’t always get along,” Frank continued. “My dad was an asshole sometimes. He tried pretending to be straight, and it fucked him up. It took a long time for us to get past it. He hated that I was living as myself, when he didn’t know how to.”

Bill’s stomach ached at that. That so easily could have been him, if he’d tried to pretend instead of just withdrawing from the world. Faced with the possibility, it was horrible. But Bill didn’t know how to live as the person he was, either. A pang of sympathy for Frank’s father, and for Frank, shot through him. He wasn’t used to that feeling. “Yeah.”

Frank clenched his fingers against Bill’s back. “Are your parents gone?”

Bill nodded, pulling back to meet Frank’s gaze. “Yeah. Years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’s been long enough.” There was so much he wanted to say, but he wasn’t here to talk about himself. “What do you need?”

Frank’s eyes dropped down to the floor. “Tell me it’s going to be alright.”

Bill couldn’t make that promise. “I can’t.”

“Please.” Frank reached out and took Bill’s hand and Bill fought the urge to pull away. No one could see here; it was just them. “Lie to me if you have to.”

“Won’t do that.” Bill focused on Frank’s hand in his. It felt right, and it almost pushed out the disaster of Maggie out of his mind. “But I’ll be here. I’d still like to make you that omelet.”

Frank drew in a breath, then relaxed against the desk, his thumb running over Bill’s skin. “I think my dad will like you. I hope he gets the chance to.” He picked up the water and downed the rest of it.

A knock on the door behind them startled Bill and he pulled away from Frank, trying to look casual and failing.

“It’s Erika.” Frank stepped past Bill and opened the door, letting go of Bill’s hand. Bill felt that loss acutely.

“Steve’s here, and the doctor’s here,” she explained. Her tears had been renewed all over again. “Wanted to go over… all of it. The situation.”

Frank let out of a slow breath. “Okay.” He glanced back to Bill. “You’re welcome to come hear it. Or if you want to wait out here, it’s fine.”

“I’ll wait out here.” Not because he wanted to let Frank find out alone, but because Frank wasn’t alone, and Bill needed the break from all of the people. He wished he could just hide in a room hugging Frank. He wasn’t sure he liked this feeling, the spaces in between, where he had to navigate social things. The club had been so much easier, so much less chaotic. At least he could maybe avoid eye contact standing around. “I’ll, uh, be here.”

Frank smiled at him, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. “Thanks.”

And then they were gone and Bill found himself standing guard in the hallway, alone, a sentry, as the door clicked shut. 

So Bill waited. 

Chapter Text

Frank held back every question he wanted to ask, before the doctor even started speaking. He knew all of the questions and for the first time, he realized what it was like to be the person asking the questions. He remembered his own frustration with patients’ families, with their constant pressure and inquiries. He told himself it was different because he knew what he was doing.

Crack. Crack.

The moment replied itself in his head, some details a blur and others standing with a razor-sharp clarity. His father’s face indistinct, blanked from his mind to focus on the moment. The sounds so clear, each one stabbing into his ears. Bone and flesh moving under his hands, his elbows locked to throw himself into every compression. The floor cold under his knees, impenetrable, the shock of each compression surging through his body. The strange silence that bystanders brought as they stared into a glimpse of death, how they seemed compelled to take it all in, unable to separate the reality of the situation from the spectacle.

Crack.

“He’s not showing any initial signs of brain damage,” the doctor continued. “He’s in stable condition.”

Frank blinked, his mind struggling to catch up. How many times had he heard these statements and brushed them off as things happening to other people? Something that all medics learned eventually, that alive wasn’t necessarily surviving. Alive, even without brain damage, could mean any other number of complications. Struggles. And even brains were complicated, they could seem fine but be very not fine farther down the line. He knew the doctor wouldn’t have all of the answers, but more than ever he understood that it was human to ask.

“But is there internal damage?” he persisted.  

“Minimal. Four broken ribs, bruising, no notable internal bleeding or damage to organs. Standard CPR damage.”

Frank slumped in relief, leaning against Jeff who put an arm around him. “Thank fuck.” He held his hand up and watched it shake. He thought he’d throw up.

“The bruising will look worse than it is,” the doctor added.

“Yeah.” Frank drew in a breath. What would this look like as a painting? Why was he thinking about paint at a time like this? “Okay. Is he in an induced coma?”

The doctor blinked. Frank reread his name tag: Dr Xiang. “Yes.”

He wanted to ask to see him, but knew that they’d all just get in the way in ICU. They wouldn’t be seeing him for his father’s sake, but for their own. “Can someone visit him?”

“We can allow one visitor,” the doctor affirmed.

“It should you be you,” Jeff said. “You saved him.”

Frank snorted. “I was just doing my job. It’s going to be you, Jeff.”

Everyone fell quiet and the doctor looked him over. “What’s your relationship to the patient?”

Frank realized what he’d said and how out of place it must have sounded. “He’s my dad.”

The doctor reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. “I don’t know what you think being a son is, but it’s definitely not administering CPR to your dad. Get some sleep tonight. It’s going to hit you later. But remember that it’s your quick action that made it possible for him to still be here.”

The doctor pulled away and Frank wished he could hug Joel, Bill, even fucking Jorge. Everyone that had made sure that they were even having this conversation. And now he had to ask all of these questions, the ones that he never had to stick around long enough to hear, the questions that nagged him not just with the guilt of the injuries he’d caused his father, but also of the guilt of years of knowing that people asked these questions, and him not caring about the answers. They weren’t ever his problem, until tonight. He treated the patient and he moved on. Sure, there were calls that stuck with him, but they passed more and more quickly over the years.

An ache set into him, especially in his ankle, a pain in his head. He recognized it as adrenaline wearing off, his body now reacting to the stress he’d been under, and he pushed it away to focus on the people that needed him. Objectively, he knew he’d regret it later. His head pounded. He didn’t even have a functional car. “Thanks.”

He forced himself to ask more of the right questions, the routine questions, the questions that came to him easily but that he barely heard himself say. Finally Melody put her arm around him. “Frank, that’s enough,” she said, her voice gentle. Now tears ran down her face, too. “Doc’s got other patients.”

“It’s fine. I’m happy to answer any questions, but at this point, it’s a fair bit of waiting.” He shifted his attention towards Jeff. “You can follow me if you’d like to head to the room, if you’re ready.”

Jeff pulled in a ragged breath, nodding. “Yeah. Okay.”

Frank gave him an encouraging smile as Jeff turned away, following the doctor. He felt himself waver on his feet and sat down hard in the nearest chair.

“Sorry to hear that you didn’t get to celebrate the art show,” Mel added, slumping into the chair next to him. “Fucked up night.”

“Yeah.” Frank leaned back and ran his fingers through his hair. He should go find Bill, update him, but he didn’t trust his voice, not yet. And he didn’t trust himself to stop himself from just holding onto Bill out in the hallway. He stretched out his legs and forced his breathing to slow down.

His father was alive. And at the moment, that was all he could focus on.

Bill didn’t love how exposed he felt in the hallway. In fact, he hated it, the people, the voices, the bustle of it all. He’d watched the doctor and Frank’s stepdad exit the room and he knew he should go back in, but he wasn’t sure if he was ready to, either. Whatever the news was, he wanted Frank’s family to have the time to process it. Or maybe he just didn’t want to face the emotion of the news was bad.

Instead he leaned against the wall, stoic, and looked up at the sound of a grating chattering sound and he looked down the hallway to see two girls walking towards him. One of them held a cake in a clear box, wearing a bright shirt and jeans. The other had her brown hair in a ponytail, wearing a beat up gray jacket (he refused to call them ‘hoodies’ what kind of terrible word was that?). She held a stack of paper plates and a box of plastic forks, and looked like she gave about as many shits as he did some days.

“Hey I think this is it!” the cake girl said, stopping in front of the door.

Bill stepped forward protectively, looking down at the cake. Congratulations! it declared in purple frosting. Little flowers surrounded it. He grunted. “You went the wrong way. Maternity ward’s on the second floor.” He didn’t know where the fuck the maternity ward was, he just wanted them get out before they intruded.

The fork and plate girl looked from at the name on the door. “No, this is definitely it.”

“You’re seriously bringing a congratulations cake to a cardiac arrest?”

The girl with the cake blinked, stricken. “He didn’t die, did he?”

“Does it matter? Who the fuck raised you for you to think this is appropriate?”

“It’s more appropriate than you,” the fork girl shot back, stepping forward. “Hey I hear the proctologists are on the third floor, you should go join the other assholes. Or maybe they can remove the stick from your fucking ass.”

“Listen here, you little shit, how about you get the fuck out of this hallway?” Bill gestured down the hall. “Don’t you have someone to go harass?”

“I’d be done already if you weren’t sitting here being a dick.”

“Done with what? Pissing me off?”

The other girl stepped up and held up the cake. “We’re just bringing a cake. It’s for Frank’s art show gallery news.”

“Before his dad fuckin collapsed and everything went to shit,” the girl added. “So we’re taking this cake in there and you’re going to regret it if you don’t move.”

“Ohhh I’m really scared.” Bill rolled his eyes. “What are you going to do, stab me with a plastic fork?”

The teenager pressed her lips together and her pose stiffened. She put the plates down on top of the clear plastic container with the cake in it and squared her shoulders.

“Ellie,” the other teenager warned. “Dad would be pissed.”

“Well Joel isn’t here to be pissed,” she snapped back.

Joel. Oh that explained a lot, didn’t it? “Thought Joel would have taught you more sense than this shit.”

The door cracked open and Frank poked his head out. “Can you guys take the volume down to about half? The whole hallway can hear you.”

“Frank that’s bullshit,” the girl snarled.

“I just got a text from a medic over in the lounge down the hall asking me why there’s a kid swearing out in the hallway.”

“For once, I agree with that guy,” Bill muttered, assuming that was Jorge again.

“We brought cake,” the other supplied, and a smile bloomed on Frank’s face. “It’s raspberry and chocolate inside.”

“Thanks, Sarah.” He looked down at the cake, a multicolored celebration cake that made Bill want to bake a real cake. “Get in there before I have to tell Joel and Tess about a disturbance in the hospital.”

“The only disturbance is this guy,” Ellie muttered, snatching back the plate and forks and stomping past him.

Frank stepped aside and gestured them in, holding the door. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He shut the door gently behind them and winced. “Sorry. She’s kind of-“

“A shithead?” Bill grumbled.

“Sometimes. But aren’t we all? She’s a good kid. They’re both good kids.” Frank leaned against the wall.

“How’s your dad?”

“For now, okay. I think. He’s injured, but he’s alive. Doctor says it doesn’t look like there’s brain damage.”

Bill was struck by the circles under Frank’s eyes, the way his shoulders dropped. The thought crossed his mind of just taking him back to Bill’s place, giving him soup, and sticking him somewhere warm to sleep. Bill couldn’t imagine what he’d gone through. “But you’re still thinking about everything you could have done differently.” That, Bill understood. He’d gone through it with Becca.

“Yeah.” Frank pushed himself away from the wall. “I know Ellie is driving you crazy, but I’d love if you came to have some cake, and I promise that I’ll keep her in line. And Sarah will be fine.” He let out a slow sigh, reaching for the doorknob as he turned his gaze to Bill. “I know today’s been shit but it would mean a lot to me if you’d come celebrate that, at least.” He chuckled. “I won’t even make you apologize for chewing out kids in the hallway.”

“She started it,” Bill grumbled.

“Oh, I have no doubt. Consider it a rite of passage. But we have to be adults.” He managed a chuckle. “Besides, Melody is disappointed I didn’t introduce you.”

Bill reached in his pocket and fumbled with his keys. He should head home, get some sleep, and leave Frank in the hands of people that could handle a time like this.

But Frank’s smile started to slip as he heard Bill’s keys jingle, and Bill couldn’t stand it. “Better be good cake for me to put up with introductions and kids,” he muttered, following Frank back into the room.

“That guy gets no cake,” Ellie declared, holding up a knife that she appeared to have smuggled in.

“Okay we’re not doing this.” Frank reached over and plucked the knife out of her hand. “Be nice to Bill. He helped save my dad, too.”

That felt better to hear than Bill thought it would feel.

Ellie narrowed her eyes at Bill. “Fine. I guess.” Ellie stuck her tongue out, which Bill supposed was better than getting flipped off.

“Would you like some cake?” Sarah asked, polite.

Bill could see it, now, that bit of Joel that was calm, that could negotiate. “Sure.”

“So,” Melody said, sliding up next to him. “You’re Bill.” She paused. "Thanks. For helping.”

He wasn’t in the mood for all of the eye contact, so he just hoped for the sweet oblivion of being able to stare into a piece of shitty grocery store cake with good intentions. Fuck it. Qu'ils mangent de la brioche.

Chapter Text

Frank shuffled next to Steve and Gabby, watching Ellie cut the cake with just a touch too much enthusiasm. She’d offered to let him do it, but he didn’t trust himself. On the other hand, maybe his nerves would have been safer than Ellie holding a knife, albeit a small one. The medic in him grumped about it, based on just one patient who managed to get a knife into the ambulance and took a swipe at him. He’d avoided it, but he didn’t love knives in the emergency room.

Sarah held out a plate and Ellie flipped the cake onto it. It collapsed in a bloody raspberry heap and Sarah sighed, setting it aside. They should be eating this cake in the club (minus all minors, obviously), but instead he sat here, the smell of cake overlapping with the smell of disinfectant. He realized that his shirt was still unbuttoned and he buttoned it up, focusing on each button. Or maybe afraid he’d match the wrong holes and buttons. 

Steve slid up next to him and lightly fist bumped his shoulder. “How’s the soon to be hottest up and coming painter in the state?”

Frank let out a sigh. He’d almost forgotten, with everything going on. “I was on top of the world.” He forced out a laugh. “Then I did some CPR, and now I’m sore.”

“You did good, though. My dad’s not a widow.” Steve searched Frank’s face. “Anything I can do?”

Frank glanced back at Ellie cutting the cake. “Normally I’d say take the knife away from the teenager, but tonight, I just don’t have any idea.”

“My suggestion is to consider the wins.” Steve looked from Ellie back to Frank’s face. “Seriously, though, how do you feel about the show?”

Frank thought about the creative block he’d had and about the start of that block finally starting to shatter. Would all of this bring it right back? Or would the surge of emotion, of raw existing, be an artistic boon? Would it come and then go? “I have no idea how I can paint like this, or present my work to anyone. But the work is good, so I suppose I’m feeling good about that point, but it’s just a lot. Dad was going to drive me to the show, that had been our plan. I felt like that was going to be just something we did.”

“Well, don’t cast out the idea just yet,” Steve said.

“Steve, I know how this goes. I don’t want him making long drives. He’s going to be resting for months. And your dad is going to be tired just trying to keep up with that.”

“They’ve got us. Come on, your dad has to make it through just to come see what kind of mess of a family dinner we’ll eventually have after we move into the house.”

Sarah handed a piece of cake to Frank on a plate that appeared to say celebrate! and of course everything about the occasion felt surreal. “Eat something.”

She handed a piece to Bill next. “Hi, I’m Sarah.”

Bill pushed his lips together and glowered, then took the cake from her. “Bill.”

He and Bill sat on seats next to each other and Frank dug into his cake without hesitation, realizing how hungry he actually was. He shouldn’t be eating this, but at least Ellie had cut him a piece from the middle of the cake rather than the edge, which at least cut that much frosting off.

Across the room, Ellie still glared at Bill, taking each bite of cake as she stared at him. Frank waited for her to flip him off or do some other completely ridiculous thing, but her eyes shifted back and forth from Bill to Frank. He gave her The Look and she rolled her eyes, always dramatic.

Bill still looked uncomfortable, sitting stiff as he took measured bites of his cake. Frank watched him, the way he guarded his cake. The little bit of frosting on his beard.

“Hey.” Frank lifted his napkin to wipe the frosting away, but Bill pulled back and scrubbed it away with his own napkin. Of course. They were in a room full of people, and Frank had just reached into Bill’s personal space.

Bill’s eyes darted around the room, then back to Frank. “Sorry,” he rumbled. “Habits, I guess.”

Frank imagined his father had, at some point, had many of the same habits. The way he looked away when an attractive man passed, or the way he hesitated to sit too close to male friends of his. A long time ago, now. Frank’s dad would have loved having cake with them, and the idea of him laying there in a hospital bed evoked a pained feeling in Frank’s gut. He would have gotten Bill, would have understood the way Bill had to keep himself reserved.

He thought about his father as if he were in the past tense, and that, too, hurt, eating past his defenses. Frank dipped the brown plastic fork into his cake and started eating, the sweet frosting coating his tongue. He’d stopped enjoying sugar a while ago, but this hit different. He watched his own hand shake as he lifted the bite and he realized how hungry he probably was. He’d regret this cake, the sugar high and the crash. He probably would be better off just eating the biodegradable fork, at that rate. Wouldn’t his dentist love that?

A calm descended over the room, Mel softly chattering on the phone with Duncan. Maybe cake hadn’t tasted this good in a while, and he ate his way through the whole piece, setting down the plate on the table.

He pulled out his phone and texted Tess. Thanks for the cake, Tess. Wish you were here. Dad’s maybe okay, hard to know. You know how complicated it is.

Yeah, I do. But how are you? You know this shit fucks people up.

Of everyone, Tess would understand. She’d walked more people through CPR over the phone than anyone he’d known. I think I’m okay. He tried to put a finger on it, on the pulsing feeling in his head, on the way he thought he’d sink down into the chair and never get back up. The lack of persistent pressure in his chest started to unnerve him. Lots of people here.

If you need to come by, you have the code to the door.

Thanks. I’ll let you know. He appreciated the offer, but sleeping in Tess and Joel’s guest room didn’t feel like where he needed to be.  

Bill leaned down and picked up Frank’s plate as Frank tucked his phone away.“You done?”

“Yeah.” Frank thought about it. “I think so.”

Bill shuffled the plate under his own. “What else have you eaten today?”

“Not enough.” Frank closed his eyes and leaned back. God he’d wanted so, so much more out of this night.

Bill stood and retrieved another bottle of water, handing it over to Frank. Frank reached back and wrapped his fingers around it. Bill’s finger caressed Frank’s hand and he met Frank’s gaze. Frank held his breath, savoring in that brief touch.

“Thanks.” Frank finished off the first water bottle and cracked open the second, drinking half of it. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do next. There was no chapter in the dating handbook for so you thought you’d be maybe fucking a guy but instead you just did CPR on your dad.

He wasn’t sure what they were still waiting for, now that they had some news. He supposed at this point it was just eating cake. He glanced down at his watch. “I guess everywhere that would have food is closed at this point.”

“Yeah, just don’t eat any more cake. Shit’s bad for you.”

“His dad’s in the hospital!” Ellie snapped. “He can eat what the fuck he wants.”

“Ellie-“ Frank started, then stopped as his eyes focused on the TV. On the screen, a reporter stood out in front of the club, with the banner Stripper rescues man at club plastered across the bottom. Frank groaned. No, not all publicity was good publicity, and the last thing he wanted was the club, or the family, all over the TV.

Bill sprung into action and reached up to turn off the TV, fumbling along the bottom for the button before finding it somewhere in the back. The TV went dark and Bill stepped back to glare at it. “Fucking vultures.”

“Same shit.” Melody sighed. “I’ll call in some favors at the paper, see if we can get this at least less messy there.”

This was the last thing they needed, and Frank’s stomach dropped so far that he was certain it would fall onto the floor. It could drag his family into the spotlight, something that none of them wanted. His dad would absolutely hate it; while he was far more open than he used to be, he just didn’t appreciate a lot of attention. With any luck, no one knew who any of them were, no one at the club would talk, and it would fade away quietly. It could also bring attention the club, and not in the good way.

Who was he kidding? This was going to get weird fast.

Crack. Crack.

Suddenly the cake wasn’t sitting so well in his stomach. He lurched to his feet and staggered out of the room, darting down the hall to the bathroom. Fuck the sounds, the chaos, the fucking mess of it all-

He pushed his way into the bathroom and made it to the toilet in time for his stomach to start to empty its’ entire contents. He barely made it onto his knees as the worst of the heaving started, his stomach contracting painfully. Acidic, biting, horrible. Tinged with the colors of the cake and frosting, and he closed his eyes between heaves. A waste of a perfectly good cake, really. Which was just the… well. The icing on the cake. He might have laughed if it didn’t hurt to breathe.

He should have grabbed the fucking water. He pulled out a wad of tissue and blew his nose, flinching at the sting of it. He pulled the tissue away and found it covered in blood. He threw it in the toilet. 

The automatic flush carried the offending bile away and it flushed a second time when Frank moved into to throw up again. The sound of the water and the smell of the disinfectant didn’t help, but at least the second round was over fast. He shook, leaning hard against the tiled wall by the toilet. Now his back felt really sore, impossibly sore. How could he dance for hours a night but a few minutes of CPR wiped him out? He supposed that was the stress of it.

“Frank?”

Bill. Of course. Frank hadn’t locked the door. “Might be safer to wait in the hall,” he managed, blinking tears away. He wasn’t even upset, but the force of vomiting made his eyes water.

“Brought some water.” Bill locked the door and squatted down next to Frank, cracking open the top off the water bottle and handing it to Frank. “Slowly.”

“Yeah. I know.” Frank took a cautious sip and swirled it in his mouth, spitting it out in the toilet. The motion brought another whole round of heaves and he bent over the toilet, propping himself up with an arm on the edge of the seat.

He leaned over the toilet, waiting, until he was sure it was done. He slumped back against the wall. Bill watched him, then brushed a stray bit of Frank’s hair out of his face. Frank realized how sweaty he’d gotten, how awful he probably looked. He took another sip of the water, cautiously swallowing it. He regarded Bill, his chest tight as he traced the lines of Bill’s face with his eyes. It had been simpler when he’d traced the lines of his face with a pencil. Frank felt vulnerable, now. “You didn’t have to come back here.”

Bill shrugged. “If it wasn’t me, it would have been Steve. I was closer to the door.”

“Thanks. Not like Steve hasn’t seen me puking before. But you…” Frank let out a breath. It would have been fine if it had been Steve. It would have maybe even made sense. “Well. You tried to warn me about the cake.”

“Yeah well I don’t even feel good about being right, if it helps.” Bill slid down to sit on the cold tile floor. “You okay?”

“Not hungry anymore, so there’s that.” Frank sat down on the floor, leaning against the wall. He felt along the edges of the tile floor, the disgusting grout that he shouldn’t be putting his fingers on but that he couldn’t help doing anyway. Something consistent, the gross floor of the bathroom in the hospital. The things you could always count on.

“Hope they have good hand sanitizer here,” Bill grumbled.

“You don’t have to stay, if you need to get going.” Fuck it. “But better idea, come back to my place. I don’t want to be by myself.” He thought about all of the pictures of Bill sitting in the living room. Maybe he could ask Bill to wait in the truck and tell him that he had to clean the place up a bit before they went in.

Bill started to get to his feet. “You’re not thinking very clearly.”

“No.” Frank reached up and caught Bill’s hand. “I mean, I’m not thinking clearly. But I’m not asking you just because I’ve had a fucked up night. This feels right. Us.”

Bill stood above him, still holding his hand, and his eyes met Frank’s. Frank squeezed his hand, hopeful, and tried to smile, brushing his hair out of his face. Bill flicked his eyes away, focusing on some point on the wall before he looked back to Frank. He nodded and Frank wondered what the triumph would have felt like if he wasn’t sitting on the floor in a hospital bathroom.

Bill helped Frank to his feet. “I guess Becca can feed the chickens tomorrow.”

They went to the sink and washed their hands. Frank stared at his reflection in the mirror, gripping the edge of the cold porcelain sink. Hallow eyes, exhausted, in need of a shower, his shirt still not tucked in. The water washed over his hands and he scrubbed at them, as if he could remove the weight of watching his father almost die.

“This feels like my first trip to a strip club,” Frank muttered, taking a paper towel and wiping at his face.

“What, you threw up?”

“On a stripper, yeah.”

Frank could see Bill trying to not smile. “So that’s how that story went.”

“Yeah. I puked on his shoes.”

“I guess I know why you didn’t tell me the rest of that story.”

Frank chuckled. It settled his stomach, somehow. He washed his mouth out with water several more times, but the taste persisted. Well, kissing Bill was out of the question at this point, but Frank supposed he wasn’t above puking his guts out then sucking dick.

God why did he even just have that thought? At a time like this?

He tucked his shirt into his pants, because it made him feel more in control of everything happening.

Back in the room, everyone sat on their phones except for Steve and Gabby, who chatted quietly in the corner.  

“I know no one wants to really say it,” Mel drawled, putting her phone down, “but there’s not a lot of use us being here at this point.”

“Thank fuck,” Erika muttered.

“Have you all just been sitting here playing chicken?” Frank asked.

Ellie snorted, pushing the cake back into the box. “Yeah we call that shit shock. You need a ride?”

“I’m good, Bill will drive me home.”

“This guy?” Ellie jabbed a finger at Bill. “Tell me later if you get the stick out of his ass.”

Frank watched Bill wind up, but Mel stepped between them. “Okay, we’re all done here. Everyone out.” She ushered everyone out of the room, and the family exchanged hugs and left until only Bill, Frank, and herself remained.

“That kid needs to calm down,” Mel muttered. She looked at Bill. “Thanks for taking Frank home. For bringing him here.” She hugged Frank and Frank held onto her for longer than he needed to then let go. She took the cake and left, leaving just the two of them. As much as Frank appreciated the cake, he wasn’t sad to see it go for now.

He couldn’t imagine how Jeff was feeling now, or if his dad was thinking anything at all. Was he dreaming? Was he in pain? Questions that Frank felt like he should have the answer to, but that he’d never looked at from this point of view. He hoped Mel would save Jeff a piece of the cake.

He needed to get out of the hospital. A place that used to feel comfortable to him now felt stifling. “Let’s get out of here here,” he said. He wanted the welcoming feel of his own apartment, his own bed. He needed a shower. Maybe he’d talk Bill into a shower with him. Wouldn’t that… god. Too fast, is what it would be. Especially after everything else today.

They left the room and Frank stopped in the hallway, looking at the sign by the door. Brightman. He wiped the writing away with his fingers, leaving blue smudges on his skin. Probably should have left it alone.

On the way out of the hospital, Frank glanced up at the TV in the main waiting area. The news had moved on from the segment, and Frank breathed a sigh of relief. With luck, that would be the end of it.

He got back to the truck and Bill opened the door for him. He wanted to kiss him; in fact, he wanted nothing more. The bile still lingered in his throat and he swallowed, jumping up into the truck’s passenger seat. He put on his seatbelt and sipped at the water. There was a chill in the air that wound it’s way into the truck, and Frank wished he’d grabbed a coat.

But soon he’d be home, in his apartment. With Bill.

Bill climbed into the driver’s seat and started the truck, then sat with his hands on the wheel for a moment. “Listen, Frank, I’m not good with some things, with people. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing.”

Frank reached up and slid his hand under Bill’s hair to wrap around his neck, scratching his fingernails along Bill’s scalp. It served the dual purpose of underscoring his point, while also warming up his considerably cold hand. “I know. I’m not asking for therapy. We don’t have to talk about it, or anything. Just let me look at you.”

He heard the desperation in his own voice. He wondered if Bill heard it.

“Okay.” Bill pulled in a breath and let it out. “Tell me where to go.”

“I’ll give you all the direction you need,” Frank declared, grinning when Bill looked away. He imagined Bill’s face flushed but it was hard to tell in the dim light.

Bill nodded and reached over to turn up the heat in the truck. “Your hand is cold,” Bill murmured.

“Your turn to turn up the heat, then?”

Bill chuckled and Frank sat back, warm and satisfied.  

Chapter Text

What was he even doing?

Minutes ago he’d put his hand on Frank’s back while he puked into a toilet. And now he drove to Frank’s… house? Apartment? He hadn’t even asked.

Frank alternated between warming his hands in front of the vents, to setting a hand on Bill’s leg. During the day, Bill wouldn’t have even entertained that. It would be too obvious, even in the truck. But at this hour, hardly anyone was on the streets, it was dark, and no one would see. As long as Frank didn’t puke in his truck, everything would be fine. Even so, he fought the urge to pull away, not because he wanted to but because every instinct screamed that this was in public. He just wanted to get somewhere that wasn’t out on the streets.

The cold steering wheel in his hands anchored him as Frank directed him through the streets.

“I might have to run in and clean up a little before you come in,” Frank admitted. He set a hand on Bill’s leg, his fingernails moving over Bill’s jeans and causing a quiet hissing sound.

“I don’t care if it’s messy.” Bill didn’t love prioritizing cleaning when there were more important things to do.

“It’s less messy and more that I left some personal things out. Next light, take a right.”

Bill wanted to ask what kind of personal things Frank referred to, but instead he just left it alone and drove. What did Bill himself have at his house that he’d feel like he need to put away, if Frank came over? Well, it wouldn’t hurt to do a sweep and hide all of the magazines in the bunker.

Frank directed Bill through the streets, his voice steady but tired. “I think I’m taking a couple of days off at this rate. I can run some errands.”

“With that car of yours?”

Frank groaned. “I forgot about that.”

“I could take a look at it.”

“I wouldn’t complain, but it’s a pretty shitty car.” He shifted and gestured to a point up ahead. “It’s up ahead on the left, the apartment building.”

Bill pulled into the first driveway, scanning the parking lot. A couple of vans were parked in the lot that could have been residents of the building, but something felt wrong… One had an array of antennas. “Frank, those vans always here?”

“What? No. There’s usually a blue minivan, that’s it.” Frank looked out the window. “Shit. Turn around and leave the parking lot. Casually. Those are news vans.”

Great, that’s just what they needed. “Get your head down. We’ll just drive right by.” He saw two people lingering near an entrance to one of the buildings. “Your apartment is on the first floor?”

“Yeah.” Frank sighed and dropped deep down into the seat.

Bill passed the van, and the people there barely gave his passing truck a glance. Bill held his breath as he passed, then let it out as they got to the far side of the van. He drove right back out the other entrance and turned back the way he came. Hopefully, it would just look like he had to do a u-turn. “Okay, you’re clear.”

Frank sat back up and pulled out his phone. “Something changed. Why are they here?” He started pressing into the dimly lit screen.

“Vultures.” Bill grunted. “Where do you want to go?”

“Your house? Not a lot of options, otherwise.”

Was he ready for Frank to spend the night at his house? Bill wasn’t sure, but he certainly wasn’t about to drop him off on his family’s porch at 1am. He had enough food in the fridge, at least. Plenty of eggs. He’d probably oversleep and the chickens would lose their shit in the morning. He could take Frank to a hotel, but the thought brought a chill up to the surface of his mind, a restlessness.

“Sure.”

At least assuming no weird news bullshit had made it to his house. Quiet life, with his garden and his chickens. And then Frank appeared like a whirlwind and threw it all off.

Frank let out a breath. “Thanks. Now I feel like I’m going to puke all over again.” He looked at his phone again. “Fuck. There’s a video of it, made it to YouTube.”

“Demand a takedown.”

“I think it’s too late for that. If it helps, the video missed you, although I don’t know if you can be heard.” Frank put down his phone in his lap and leaned back. “I’ll have to wait for it to die down. Maybe I’ll just stay at your place a few days.”

Bill could read a lot into that, but he wasn’t sure he was ready to. Instead, he headed for the freeway. Frank just stared out the window. The heat continued to blast, and now the coldness of the steering wheel was no longer an issue.

“Not going to throw up again, are you?” Bill asked instead.

“I’m good. I think it’s done. But I’m not going to want to eat for a while. May need a shower, if you have good water pressure and water that’s actually hot.”

“Yeah. It’s good.”

“It has to be better than my apartment.”

Bill fell silent, realizing that as long as he talked, Frank would talk, and he didn’t want to talk all through the whole drive. He felt affirmed in that decision when Frank stayed quiet for many blessed minutes. Good, then he’d get some time to think. Although that was dangerous in and of itself, now it was just Bill in his truck with his thoughts.

Jesus.

He hadn’t put Frank’s painting up yet. It was almost time to change the oil on the truck. Did he still have enough cheese in the fridge? How many people at work would end up hearing about this? 

A thump started him, and he glanced over see a soft glow emanating from the floor. Frank must have fallen asleep and his phone slipped out of his hands.

Bill pushed his lips together and told himself he wouldn’t smile. Especially not with the idea of Frank going to his own house. This would have been a lot easier if he didn’t have time to think about it, didn’t have the drive. It would have been easier if Frank had just showed up at his house one day and everything escalated.

The drive felt familiar and that helped, letting himself follow the taillights in front of him. He never used the old shitty cruise control on the truck, preferring to always be aware of his speed and the responsiveness of the engine. Becca loved the automatic car bullshit that changed speed with traffic, but Bill didn’t trust a car above his own reflexes. He didn’t trust much of anything or anyone.

So why the fuck was he taking Frank home with him?

He went over his list todo list for the next day and hopefully Frank wouldn’t fuck up his whole routine. He should have turned on some music to fill the silence.

He pulled into the driveway and came to a gentle stop. Frank stirred as Bill turned off the engine, looking around. “I guess I fell asleep. Did I snore?”

“No.” Bill glanced at his watch; 1:21 AM. “We’re here.”

Bill collected his cellphone, coat, and Frank’s suitcase, leading Frank to the house. He looked over his shoulder, the way that Frank’s steps seemed slower, lower. The moonlight illuminated his form, and Bill caught his breath as his eyes swept over Frank’s shoulders.

Inside the house, Bill started towards the stairs. “I’ll… uh.” He paused. “Do you want to take that shower?”

“Do you want to join me?”

Bill held onto the suitcase harder, not wanting to drop it. “I’ll take one after you.”

“Suit yourself. I leave some hot water for you.”

“It’s tankless,” Bill said, gruff. “Never runs out.”

“Infinite shower.” Frank chuckled. “Be careful, Bill, I just might stay more than the night.”

Bill started up the stairs, and something buzzed in his ear. The engineer in him broke it down into electrical impulses, a raise in his blood pressure, his nervous system on fire. The stairs creaked under his feet, and he could hear Frank moving up the stairs behind him.

Which room? Bill’s room? Another room? Was he assuming-

No. No, there was no assuming. Frank wasn’t an idiot; he knew exactly what he was doing. Bill knew that Frank wasn’t above games, but this didn’t feel like one. And now Bill fought an internal battle of a different kind. He wanted Frank, maybe even needed Frank. But after everything Frank had been through tonight, Bill wasn’t sure it would be wise to act on anything.

Bill reached the top of the stairs and went to his own room, opening the door. At least this room at the best water pressure. That’s what he told himself as he sat down Frank’s suitcase on the bed. Frank lingered in the doorway. “Towels hanging up are clean,” Bill said, looking back towards Frank who leaned against the door frame, smiling.

Frank’s smile slipped at the sound of a long, low growl. “Sorry. I think I’m hungry again.”

“Come downstairs when you’re done, then.”

Frank reached for the edge of his shirt and pulled it off, and Bill backed out of the room to give him privacy. Not like he’d see anything he hadn’t already seen, but this was different. This was in Bill’s own bedroom and that was a lot to take in. Frank naked was one thing. Frank in Bill’s bedroom, another. Frank naked and in Bill’s bedroom was a whole other tangle. Bill tried to get his mind in order as he headed back downstairs to slice up some bread. Toast was the only thing that worked when he’d felt sick.

He could still hear the water running, so he busied himself with straightening up, where he could. It helped that he didn’t have very much stuff. Everything he enjoyed had been crammed into the bunker, and all practical things aside from his wine collection.

Such a thin floor separating them. He could go upstairs and be in the room next to him. Just on the other side of the door. It was hard to not imagine Frank in the shower, the water running down his body. It didn’t help that Bill knew exactly what Frank’s body looked like, either. Washing his hair with Bill’s shampoo. 

A male stripper. His mother would have keeled over and died, if she wasn’t dead already. To say nothing of what his father would have said, or done.

Bill had his reasons to spend most of his time alone. No one to judge.

He moved through the kitchen, pausing for a moment by the counter. This was it, the spot he stood as his parents disowned his sister. He thought of Philip Larkin’s words in This Be The Verse. They fuck you up, your mum and dad.  

He popped the bread into the toaster but didn’t start it. Now, to wait. And Bill didn’t like waiting. He ran his hand through his hair, and walked through making sure that the curtains were all closed. No need for the neighbors to see anything. Relief stabbed at him when he remembered that, at the least, Steve hadn’t moved in yet. That’s just what he needed, to go out to feed the chickens and wave. Sorry about your stepdad, now leave me the fuck alone.

He went to his wine rack in the kitchen, which contained a selection of wines he’d brought up from downstairs. He picked a 2009 Malbec and opened it. He needed the glass now, so he put an aerator on the bottle and poured himself a glass. He sipped on it as he paced through the house, straightening things. He looked up at an empty spot on the wall, one where his mother had once hung a painting of a horse that he’d hated and promptly gotten rid of. It would be the exact perfect spot for the chicken painting. He retrieved it from the living room and hung it it up, then sat back and regarded it. He nodded. It looked right.

The creak on the stairs alerted Bill to Frank’s approach, and he moved back into the kitchen, flicking down the handle to start the toast.

“Back here!” he called, and Frank appeared in the doorway, dressed in sweats and a t-shirt. Bare feet, and he looked comfortable and smug. Of course he did, with his hair somehow perfect despite being wet.

“Wow, that might be the best shower I’d had,” Frank commented, leaning against the counter.

“Wait until you try my cooking.” Bill set down his wine and gestured at it. “Wine?”

Frank’s face paled, more than it already had. “I wouldn’t do that to perfectly good wine.” He grimaced. “I used your mouthwash. Sorry I didn’t ask.”

“It’s fine.” Bill pulled down a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water, setting it in front of Frank.

“Thanks.” Frank reached for it, wrapping his fingers around the glass.

The toast snapped up and Frank jumped, his hand bumping into the glass. Bill caught the glass before it fell, his fingers wrapping around Frank’s.

“Yeah don’t go breaking my glasses,” Bill muttered, stepping back.

His parents would have disowned him, too, for bringing home a male stripper. No, that was selling Frank short. Frank was a stripper but he was so much more. A good man, a beautiful man, who stood in Bill’s kitchen. A man who looked unsteady and Bill felt a wave of protectiveness.

“Sit over there.” Bill gestured with a hand, then set down his wine and snagged the toast out of the toaster, buttering it. “It’s not much but you should be able to keep it down.”

“God I hope so.” Frank carried his water over to the smaller table, near the monitor. He peered up at it, and Bill’s stomach dropped.

Now Frank would think he was weird, that he spied on his neighbors.

But instead, a chuckle resonated from Frank’s chest. “If I had a setup like this, I probably wouldn’t have had my car broken into so many times.”

Bill grunted. “Yeah. I just don’t like people poking around out there.” He took his own wine and the plate of toast and went to the table, setting the toast in front of Frank along with a crisp linen napkin. He watched Frank’s mouth bite down, his eyes closing. Bill wasn’t good at reading people but something in Frank’s posture relaxed.

Bill turned off the monitor, and sat across from Frank, sipping at his wine, waiting, watching. This casual man, eating toast in his kitchen, weary after doing CPR on his own father.

“Did you forget you already told me you have a ‘fucking crazy bunker’ in your basement?” Frank asked, brushing the crumbs off on a napkin. “You don’t have to turn anything off on account of me.”

Bill shrugged. A silence filled the house, broken by the gentle hum of the fridge and the sound of Frank eating. Bill thought perhaps he should be considering what was supposed to happen next, but instead he drew in a breath, dropping his shoulders. He swirled the wine in his glass as Frank pushed his plate away, the toast gone.

He finished his water and sat back. “Thanks.”

“Do you want any more?”

“No, I’m good.” Frank ran his hands over his thighs. “I’m sorry you had to see all of that. I can’t repay you for being there.”

Bill snorted. “Didn’t do it for payment.”

“I know. I think we’re maybe done with payment.” Frank let out a sigh. “I think my dad will like you.”

“I’m not exactly the bring home to the parents type.”

“You could be. Dad was reserved like you, once.” Frank regarded Bill, his lips parted, and got to his feet to walk around the table. Bill stared up at him.

The pace of time altered, evolved, and Bill could measure the moments in heartbeats. Everything slowed down and Bill finished his wine, setting down the glass.

Frank leaned in, lifting a hand to caress Bill’s cheek. Something surged through Bill, but he waited, frozen like the ice that formed on the pond down the trail, the one Becca had nearly drowned in.

Frank smiled and it may as well have been noon on a spring day when Frank leaned in, and Bill could feel his breath against his skin. He leaned into the touch, that glorious touch that said I see you. Bill wasn’t sure he’d ever needed anyone, anything, as much as he did Frank in that moment. He should pull back. He should stop before it’s too late.

But he wanted that moment that they’d kissed at the club, the moment that he’d felt his pulse whooshing in his head, the way the world fell away.

Frank’s lips touched his and Bill felt it run through his whole body, his soul, every cell of his body vibrating as the warmth of Frank’s kiss, his touch, bolted into him. Bill sought Frank’s mouth, standing to meet Frank at his level, their lips barely parting as Bill wrapped his arms around Frank’s arm, his grip resolute.

No, he wouldn’t let go this time. He craved this. He let that hunger overtake him and closed his eyes, letting the kiss wash over him and through him. Less intense than at the club, but… here, in Bill’s own home, he felt safe, he felt free, on fire at Frank’s touch.

Fuck.

That brought a renewed energy and Bill kissed back, his lips parted, an invitation. He tried to focus on the feeling of Frank’s lips but then Frank lifted his other hand and wrapped his fingers around Bill’s neck. Bill had always been proud, independent, his own guardian. Warmth flooded through him and he pushed down the feeling in his stomach, overlaid by the beating of his own heart.

The world faded away and Bill reached for Frank, resting a hand on his hip.

This was right. It was everything, as Frank’s lips caught Bill’s, until Frank pulled away, breathless.

“God,” Frank choked out. His fingers curled against Bill’s cheek. “Bill.”

Hearing Frank say his name like that, a benediction, a plea…

Frank’s other hand ran through Bill’s hair. “Go take a shower, Bill.”

Bill nodded, slowly, and pulled back, turning away. He looked back over his shoulder at Frank. He was about to leave someone in his kitchen, in his house, all on the command to take a shower.

He walked up the stairs, the middle ones in particular creaking under his feet. He went to the master bedroom, stripping off his clothes and setting them on a chair. He glanced over towards the bed as he took his shirt off. He imagined Frank in his bed. Then Frank on his couch, in his house, in his kitchen. He watched Frank feed the chickens outside, he saw Frank paint in the sunroom in his mind’s eye. 

This was more hope than one man was meant to contain and Bill stepped into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. His reflection stared back at him and he adjusted his posture, then let his breath out.

Frank would see him, the scars, the tattoos on his arms. His hands shook as he turned away, turning on the water on the shower and stepping in. He was hard, an ache that he welcomed even as the discomfort edged in. Even the shame.

No. That didn’t fit. Why should he feel shame for this? For something that felt right, felt real.

The water washed over him and he let it, going through his usual shower ritual. Frank waited for him somewhere in the house. Bill wanted to touch himself, to feel that relief, but he didn’t. He needed to feel Frank’s touch.

He put a hand against the cold tile.

Hold onto the night. There will be no shame.

The last thing he needed was Erasure in the shower.

He rinsed himself off and turned off the water. Cold air flowed over him as he opened the shower door, and he dried himself off, wrapping a towel around himself.

He felt vulnerable, naked both physically and emotionally. He took several breaths before stepping back into the bedroom.

In his bed, Frank laid partially covered by blankets, a soft snore rumbling from him.. Disappointment warred with the feeling in his stomach, the knot, the thing in Bill that made him follow the lines of Frank’s face in the soft light of the bedside lamp. He glanced over at the chair where Frank’s clothes were piled, realizing that Frank was completely naked under those blankets.

I should just let him sleep. He needs it.

Bill’s gaze lingered on the muscles of Frank’s arm. He put on sweats and a t-shirt, moving quietly to not wake up Frank, and started to move towards the door. He’d sleep in his old room and let Frank rest. His dick reminded him that something else had occurred to him, but Bill pushed it away. Or tried to. What was it about this man that made him want something he’d ignored for so long? 

He reached for the doorknob and set his hand on it its cold surface, then turned. The mechanism made a click and Frank stirred. He didn’t open his eyes, only shifted.

“Bill?”

Bill’s fingers rested on the doorknob and he stopped at the sound of Frank’s voice.

“Stay,” Frank breathed, holding out a hand. “Stay with me.”

“You need rest,” Bill said. He’d never slept in a bed with someone before. He didn’t know how to do this. He didn’t know if he could.

“Please.” Frank’s hand wavered and how could Bill say no? Something about Frank made him want to say yes, over and over. He went to the bed, sliding between the sheets. Frank dropped his hand onto Bill’s hand and a calm came over Bill. 

The concerns of his body slipped away and finally the feeling in his stomach won. Frank’s fingers interlaced with Bill’s, and he pulled Bill’s hand to his lips.”I wanted…” Frank trailed off.

Bill watched him but Frank didn’t say anything else. “Frank?”

Silence.

Bill reached over and turned off the lamp, leaving his hand in Frank’s. He listened to the sound of Frank’s breathing and tried to match it. Just hours ago, Frank had been dancing. Now he slept in Bill’s bed, naked and looking like he was exactly where he needed to be. Bill forced down his mind’s tendency to create all the possible options. The exhaustion started to pluck at him, tempting him with something else: the promise of rest. 

Frank squeezed his hand and Bill relaxed, closing his eyes. He’d need some sleep if he was going to make that omelet in the morning. 

Chapter Text

Frank roused into wakefulness to the sound of chickens, their fussing muffled by the walls of the house. He blinked, slow, his eyes dry. Sunlight poured through a slit in the curtains and Frank closed his eyes against the harsh intrusion. The exhaustion of the night before still echoed through his head and he pulled the blankets up over his face as if that would silence it. He could forgive the low thread count of the scratchy sheets given that the pillow felt just right under his head. These were the sheets of man that had clearly never slept naked, but Frank wouldn’t turn his nose up at a comfortable bed. Better mattress than his, too.

He stretched under the comforter, taking up more space than he needed to on the king-sized bed. No Bill, but he hadn’t expected anything different. Bill seemed like the type who got up early in the morning to feed chickens.

He flicked the comforter down and stared up at the ceiling. An older style of texture painted many times over the years. Based on the pictures that lined the wall by the stairs, Frank got the impression that the house had once belonged to Bill’s parents. A home with history, and all the things that came with it. The baggage.

Parents were good for that.

Rolling over on his side, he saw his phone sitting on the nightstand. He reached out for it, the chill of the air hitting his skin. Someone who liked their air conditioning, then, to counteract the mugginess that persisted longer than usual this year. Better than sleeping in his apartment, which was great for all the plants, but terrible for sleeping without feeling like a literal wet blanket.

He unplugged the charger from the phone, seeing that he didn’t have any missed calls. A relief since it wasn’t likely his family would send bad news in a text. He reviewed the text messages on his phone, starting with the ones from his family. Stable status for his dad, the morning round of imaging still showed no brain damage.

The family group text moved into a frustrating amount of chatter, and he moved into other individual messages. The club had gotten several phone calls about him. More than several, in fact. What was the point of having a stripper name if someone could find his actual name in a matter of an hour?

Jesus.

He scrolled through the messages from Tess, his family, and several from customers. Mostly perfectly polite, a couple… not. Perhaps it was about time to contact AT&T and change his phone number or get a second number to separate personal and professional business like many of the others at the club did. Steve had warned him, but he’d never been great at listening.

Mel, thankfully, had the most practical suggestion of all, which was spin control. I’ll talk to my editor, see if we can get something published that’s more about former paramedic Frank Brightman and less “my brother did CPR in booty shorts.”

Frank snorted as he replied back. Why not both?

That depends on if you want things to calm down, or get bigger tips.

Again, can I get an order of both?

I’ll see what I can do. Hang in there. I’m just glad you were there.

A mess, and finally he sighed, tossing the phone onto the bed and pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. Fuck it.

He dragged himself up out of bed and walked to the window, staring out into the yard. Details were hazy and he just looked over the green lawn, resting his fingers on the window ledge. Dusty. He frowned, wiping a finger along the surface. He felt disconnected, confused, and that feeling didn’t sit right at all; for years, all he did was notice the fine details. The dog barking that could bit him or his partner while on a call. The man that tensed up as Frank and a partner passed them on the sidewalk. The way a customer moved or tried to slide in too close, or that reached for his drink with something hidden in his hand. The way an artist had to see the details and the big picture, but always needed to see something.

But now it all blurred together, details layered too deep for him to process. Too much, too fast. He focused on a tree, tracing leaves with his eyes, committing it to memory, letting it anchor him.

He went to the bathroom then stared at his reflection in the mirror. Ouch. Eyes swollen, hair a mess. A clean washcloth sat on the counter, folded neatly, a very odd contrast to the dusty window ledge. He soaked the washcloth in cold water and held it over his face to reduce the puffiness. His ankle protested standing on it and he ignored the traitor of a body part, pressing the cool washcloth to his face. Patience, it would just take patience and enough chilly water.

Crack.

Frank shuddered, slumping. Not enough patience or cold water and he set the washcloth down. A feeling settled over him and he put his hands on the countertop, curling his fingers against its surface. He’d come here last night to bury his problems, to evade the feeling he had.

The low pile carpet yielded under his feet as he went back to the bedroom. He found his suitcase set up on a rack next to the bed, and he flicked it open, rummaging through it for clothes. After he was dressed, he tucked his phone in his pocket and headed downstairs. Frank tried to avoid the creaking spot on the stairs by stepping to the side but the stairs won. Frank embraced that, having a feeling that Bill would rather hear him coming than not.

He trailed his fingers over the smooth railing, past the particularly worn spot near the bottom. His fingertips feel the dings, the dips, the history that this one railing held. He revisited the pictures along the stairs as he went. Bill’s mother had a gentle smile. His father, stern. Based on some pictures from within a church, perhaps a preacher.

Frank noted the fine layer of dust on several of the photo frames, too. It felt to Frank that Bill liked his nice things, in his way, but he didn’t know how to inhabit a space. His eyes lingered on the piano as he passed, his fingers itching to try to play. It had been a while, although Jeff had given him some lessons. He’d tried because at one point he’d thought it would be fun to play with Salim while he played guitar, but he’d always gotten too energetic, and eventually Salim decided that playing with Jeff was easier. Frank hadn’t minded, since painting was the only art he truly loved. He appreciated music, though, and he wanted to hear the tones that piano would evoke.

The piano, interestingly, had no dust on it at all that he could see, and Frank saw another glimpse into Bill’s priorities.

In the kitchen, Bill stirred ground sausage in a pan, not even glancing at Frank, who watched him from the doorway. He could smell sage, pepper, maybe a touch of… cayenne?

“Are you going to stare at my ass or come in the kitchen?” Bill grumbled, transferring the sausage to a paper towel lined plate.

“Maybe I’m enjoying the show.” Frank leaned against the doorframe.

Bill wore a long sleeved shirt and jeans that fit far too well to be fair, and his hands were steady as he set the pan down on the stove. “Do I get tips for this?” he asked, reaching for a bowl of scrambled eggs and giving it another stir. “How’d you sleep?”

“Soundly.” Outside, another chicken cawed and Frank flinched. “Does anyone sleep through those chickens?”

Bill grunted. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t.”

Frank came into the kitchen and eyed the bowl of eggs. “Are these fresh? No wonder they flipped out.”

“They don’t give a shit if I take eggs. They just want food.”

“Oh, I get that feeling.” His stomach alerted him to just how hungry he was. “I feel like I haven’t eaten in two days.”

“The cake from last night says otherwise.” Bill wiped his hands on a towel and glanced over at Frank. “You were out hard last night.”

Frank’s wasn’t sure if he was catching a subtext there, but he leaned against the counter as he watched. “My plan wasn’t to fall asleep.”

Bill shrugged, continuing his movement through the kitchen. “It was better that you slept.”

Frank ran his fingers along the edge of the countertop. “What about you? How did you sleep?”

Bill poured the eggs into a second frying pan and it landed with a hiss. “Decent, except…” He trailed off. “Decent.” He let out a long breath of air. “How about you let me cook? Not used to other people watching.”

“You get to watch me work,” Frank pointed out.

“Yeah well, I’m not used to it.” Bill waved him off. “Don’t fuck with anything.”

Frank thought of Bill’s admission of the bunker. “So no looking behind any closed doors?”

“Not if you want breakfast.”

Frank held his hands up, grinning. “I’ll take that thread seriously.” He backed out of the kitchen, working his way around the main floor. The bathroom he found easily enough. A door under the stairs that he suspected led to the basements. Off limits, then. Bill showed some trust in Frank by letting him walk through his house, and Frank wasn’t about to push his luck. Not yet.

But just to be rebellious, he brushed his fingers over the forbidden doorknob. I see you. He had no idea what Bill really meant by secret bunker. For all he knew, it was a room full of porn magazines hidden in the basement. A part of him wanted to test Bill, to push him. Doing it while Bill cooked for him hardly seemed fair, and he continued to the living room, and around to the dining room. How much trouble could he make in a dining room?

He sat down at the table, curling his fingers around the armrests. Bill had already set up place settings, neatly folded linen napkins, forks, crystal glasses. A large dining room table, perfect for entertaining, but Frank imagined that it saw little enough of that. Opposite the table, another place setting sat. Frank took the seat facing the door, feeling that it gave him a better sense of the room. The house filled with the smell of omelet and Frank breathed it in.

The events of the night before felt far away, and Frank didn’t know when they’d catch up with him again so he’d take every chance he could to just take a breath. His phone buzzed in his pocket, then again. A call. The screen showed it was Tess. He started to decline the call, then realized she wouldn’t call without a reason. “Hey Tess.”

“There you are! Are you home?”

“I’m not, actually.”

“Thank God. Joel tried stopping past your place, and it’s a fucking circus.”

“They’ll get over it in a couple of days.” Something about Tess’s voice soothed him, perhaps it was years of hearing her voice in dispatch. Letting him know help was on the way, that she’d dispatched another ALS unit, that he needed to stay in cover until the police arrived. Countless crises that they’d been through together, that she’d anchored him through.

“You can stay at our place if you need.”

“I’m okay.” Frank drew in a breath. “I found a bed and breakfast with good rates.”

“Frank,” Tess warned. “You’ve been through a lot.”

“You think?”

“It’s not you I’m worried about.” She sighed. “You broke off the customer arrangement?”

“Yeah, I think we torpedoed that from orbit, Tess.” He didn’t want to say too much, much less anything along the lines of can you get Amazon to send a bunch of dust cloths to this address?

“Good.” She hesitated for a moment. “Just take care. We’re here if you need anything.”

“You’ve got it. And… thanks.” He hung up the phone.

The night before felt far away, like a dream, something that happened to someone else. He put his phone on do not disturb and stood, pacing the dining room. Some pictures here, too, outdated curtains, but charming in their way. He shook out one of the curtains and dust billowed into the air, sending him into a fit of sneezing.

The swinging door banged open, and Bill came to a stop, holding a plate in each hand, filled with a pair of fat, generous omelets paired with a side of potatoes. Bill narrowed his eyes and Frank moved back to his seat.

“Sorry. I just wanted to look out the window.”

“Told you not to touch anything.” Bill stopped, holding the plates. “Do you eat mushrooms?”

“Who doesn’t eat mushrooms?”

Bill set one of the plates down in front of Frank on the placemat. “Wasn’t sure so I made one of each. They’re ones I grew. I smoked this cheddar myself. Potatoes are from the garden.”

The omelet looked just right: full of filling but not too full. And home smoked cheddar?

Dear God. He picked up the fork started in on the omelet. And it was perfect. “The fuck? This is amazing!”

Bill picked up his fork. “It’s just an omelet.”

“Don’t sell yourself short on this!”

And Frank was ravenous, but he wanted to savor every bite of it.

It pushed the events of the night before out, soothing the edge he felt himself teetering upon. He could feel it, that it was a matter of time before it caught up with him, but this wasn’t that moment. The balance of flavors was perfect in his mouth, and he dug into the next bite. A silence filled the room, a satisfied lack of sound that he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

He glanced up to find Bill watching him. “What?”

Bill brushed his hair back over his ear and looked down at his food. “Glad you like it.”

There was a blush that crept into Bill’s face, and Frank leaned into that. “You have to know that you’re a fantastic cook.”

“I make what I like.” Bill shrugged. “Have to do something with all of these eggs, you can’t make that much homemade bread.”

“You make bread?” Frank asked. Of course he made bread.

“The toast last night didn’t come out of nowhere.”

It made Frank wish that he could eat a lot more food than he could get away with. He went back to eating, and the room filled with the comfortable sounds of eating. Frank didn’t mind, and he got the feeling that Bill appreciated that, as well. But really, there was something reassuring about just focusing on a meal, not on work, not on the other drama, not on… whatever happened last night.

He wasn’t sure he had an omelet this good since he first had breakfast with his father and Jeff back in San Francisco. It had been the day after he’d met Jeff, still reeling from the realization that everything Frank had thought he had known about his father had been so, so wrong. A turbulent time, a time when Frank had distanced himself from his father to protect himself from his father’s hate. Jeff coming into their lives changed everything, shining a flashlight into all of the dark corners of the Brightman family that Frank’s father had hidden away from even himself.

“I haven’t had an omelet this good since I was in San Francisco,” Frank admitted. A pang went through him, resonating in his chest. Hell, yesterday he’d had dinner with his dad. How fast things could change. “A good omelet always reminds me of the first time I met Jeff.”

Bill stayed silent for a moment, and Frank worried that he had said too much, had opened a door he hadn’t meant to open. But Bill took another thoughtful bite of his omelet, washing it down with his coffee. Somehow Frank was not surprised to see Bill had a mug where the handle looked like a pistol.

“How long ago was that?” Bill asked.

“Far too long to go without this good of an omelet.” Every omelet for miles couldn’t even come close. “They’ve been together a long time, now.”

Bill pushed at his omelet with his fork. “Was that weird?”

“Kind of, yeah. I mean, I was everything my dad hated growing up.” Frank flinched. They’d covered enough of that last night. “Maybe that’s a harsh way to put it. But something tells me that you’ve been through this.”

“You mean the pictures of my preacher father on the stairs?” Bill set his fork down. “Yeah. I went through this. But my father died how he lived. Disowning Becca and never knowing about me.”

“I’m sorry.” He ate another bite, one with a particularly excellent mushroom. He swallowed. “You deserve better than that.”

“Becca took it worse than me.” Bill regarded him across the table. “How the fuck does your dad go from that to where he is?”

“He gave me a hard time growing up. I never tried to be anyone else than myself. My father didn’t have that luxury, and it took him too long to figure it out. Mom suspected the whole time, and in some ways it was worse on her than me, and they divorced over it. My story was everywhere. But hers, you don’t hear as much about. It gets confusing, and frustrating.”

“Girl I dated probably identified with that.”

“Girl, huh? How did that go?”

“Well, I doubt either of us were really each other’s type. Although who knows. She-“ Bill bit his statement off. “That’s a story for later.”

“Fair enough.”

“What happened when you met Jeff?”

“Which part? Where I wanted to punch my dad for being such a dick? And do you want to hear the whole story or are you being polite?”

“Have I given you the impression that I’m polite about conversation?”

“Fair.”

“Just don’t let that perfectly good omelet get cold because you’re yapping.”

Frank took another bite of the omelet. “How about I just eat it first and then you can hear the story.”

The omelet deserved that kind of attention, so Frank put all of that attention into that omelet before he finally pushed his plate away. “I’m stuffed. And I feel so much better.” He looked up at Bill. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Bill sighed. “So. Your dad.”

“One day he calls me, just out of the blue, and it’s completely weird. I expected the usual bullshit, but it didn’t come. Says he has someone he wants me to meet. He says he’s got things to make right. I figure what the fuck. Sure, fine, whatever, what’s the worst he can do than make me feel like shit? He comes by and picks me up at my place. The weirdest was that When Doves Cry came on the radio and I had to turn it off. Maybe you’re just like my father hit too hard.” He remembered the feeling of reaching for the dial and turning off the radio. “We went to this hotel and my dad is trying to explain, but it’s just a lot of stuff that doesn’t make any sense. And my dad introduces me to Jeff. Who holds out a hand to my father. And talk about a mind blown kind of moment, you know?”

“I don’t know, actually.”

“Yeah.” Frank wrapped his fingers around his coffee mug but didn’t drink. “It’s just not what I ever expected. I thought Dad just meant all of it, but Instead Jeff being there fixed something that had been broken in my family. He was where the healing started, for all of us. And the next morning, we went and we got that omelet.” That omelet had tasted of a new era in their lives. Maybe this one did, too. Frank took a deep swig of his coffee. He thought of how his family was now, all at dinner together sometimes, laughing. Frank had to know he’d have that back, that his dad would be there for it. “I want you to meet my parents, Bill. I meant that.”

Bill froze and stared down into his coffee, and a pang of guilt shot through Frank. “Not right now,” Frank added. “I don’t even know if my dad will be okay. But I hope if he is, I really want him to know about you. If you’re okay with it.”

“That’s not the problem. Told you, that’s not me. The man that meets your parents.”

Frank set his coffee down and got to his feet, moving to the other side of the table where Bill sat. “I think you are.”

“That’s the omelet speaking.”

Frank’s attention was all on Bill’s lips, and he leaned down, pressing a kiss to them. Bill froze, then pushed his chair back hastily and got to his feet. He grasped at Frank’s arm, and Frank wrapped an arm around him and kissed him deeper. He tasted of coffee and garlic, which Frank didn’t mind.

Bill parted his lips and Frank took the invitation gladly, sliding his tongue into Bill’s mouth. Frank was heady with it, in Bill’s dining room, his stomach sated and content but a new hunger rising in him. He pushed Bill backwards until they bumped into the table, and Bill moved his hand from Frank’s arm up to behind his neck. Frank couldn’t have pulled away if he wanted to. And he certainly didn’t want to.

Finally he pulled away, reaching up a hand to trace Bill’s cheek. Maybe he needed this. “Do you want to take this upstairs?”

Bill nodded, his eyelids fluttering as Frank stroked his cheek. How would he look spread out in front of Frank? Frank needed to know.

“Then let’s go upstairs,” Frank whispered, holding out his hand. This time, Bill didn’t hesitate. He put his hand in Frank’s.

If only every omelet ended in this much satisfaction.

Chapter Text

On the way up the stairs, Bill kept his eyes on Frank in front of him, refusing to look at any of the pictures on the walls. Let the ghosts of his parents watch, for all he gave a shit, with the way Frank looked even in sweatpants. He followed at enough of a distance to catch the curve of Frank’s ankles, the shape of his feet as he padded up the stairs. Knowing where every creak in the stairs would happen. Frank moved like someone who knew where he was going, for all that he’d spent one night in Bill’s home.

It wasn’t fair, how he could just inhabit a place like this. Like he belonged here. That caused a pull deep in Bill’s gut. This was his space, all his. But was this so bad?

At the top of the stairs, Frank paused, drawing a deep breath. Letting it out. “Bill.”

“Yeah?”

“For the record, I don’t usually do this. Not even for a great omelet. Not even for mushrooms.”

Bill chuckled a little at that (just a little). “Yeah. I figured.”

Frank watched him for a moment, then stepped to him and placed his lips on Bill’s. Bill closed his eyes, sparks going off behind them, the world dropping away and being replaced with a tenderness that made him ache.

He’d never known how much he’d wanted. That he’d wanted anything at all. And here was this man, kissing him, pulling him closer, making him feel wanted. He could pull away. He could preserve that space he’d kept around himself his whole life, that invisible boundary that had kept him safe, distant.

All he had to do was step back and that was it, he could turn back around and go back to the way things were.

Frank kissed his mouth, and then his cheek, and moved down his neck, peppering his skin with slow, soft kisses. Each kiss a cadence, a pluck on a piano that swelled with each subsequent kiss into a melody, a song, a concerto that beat in his ears.

He moved his hands to Frank’s hips like he had in the club. There, his hands had rested on barely more than underwear, and now on fabric. So little between them, even now. He gathered the fabric in his fingers, and Frank returned the gesture with a kiss, holding Bill’s face in his hands.

Bill had never had kissing anyone feel this safe. Not like he had much experience, but for something so awkward, it felt right. Frank’s lips tasted like acceptance, of comfort, of things Bill couldn’t put a name to. The world and it’s burdens dropped away, replaced with the glow that was Frank.

Frank pulled away and wrapped his arms around Bill. “I think we need another shower.”

“We took showers last night,” Bill protested.

“Come on, what about that endless hot water you bragged about? Do you trust me?”

Bill didn’t trust anyone, much less someone who danced his way past every careful countermeasure that Bill had put up. But how careful had he been?

Bill sucked in a breath. “Yes.” He trusted Frank, against all logic.

“Then shower.” Frank dipped in for another kiss, then pulled back to head towards the bathroom.

Bill followed, relieved that he didn’t have to decide what happened next, content to let Frank take the lead. “I can wait here and you can go first.”

“And what if you fall asleep?”

“I’m not you.”

“Ouch. But I deserved that.” Frank grinned. “Together, then?”

Bill blinked, his heart beating too hard in his chest. “I don’t know if I can.”

“I won’t make you. How about this: I’m going to go take a shower, and if you want to join me, you’ll know where I am.”

Frank started stripping off his clothes, and not in the same way that he did at work. Just normal taking off his clothes, starting with his shirt. Bill watched as he pulled it up over his head, setting it on the chair in the room. He stretched and it reminded Bill of a satisfied cat, a little too smug, a little too comfortable inhabiting the space.

And then Frank, like the cheeky little shit he was, stepped backwards into the bathroom and closed the door. “If you want the rest you have to open the door!” Frank called from the other room.

Son of a bitch.

Bill heard the telltale sound of the water knob turning, and there it was all over again. Frank on the other side of the door, gloriously wet and naked, dripping and slick with soap. His hands running through his own hair.

Eventually Frank would come back out, all Bill had to do was wait.

Fucking hell, this man was infuriating, but Bill wasn’t about to let him out stubborn him. Not open the door to the bathroom, in his own house?

Bill slipped off his shoes then his clothes, setting them on the chair where Frank left his shirt. His bathrobe hung in the closet, rarely used, and he pulled the dark blue robe on, tying it. He went back to the bathroom and stared at the door, focusing his gaze on the doorknob. What a shitty little obstacle. He turned the knob and opened the door.

In the bathroom, Frank tested the water with one foot, balancing on the other. Graceful even now. Bill noticed he kept his weight on the good ankle, and focusing on that kept Bill from staring at Frank’s… other attributes. Everything felt exaggerated here, but at the same time, Frank looked so real, compared to the club. Maybe it was the circles under his eyes, or the way his hand shook just a little as he ate.

“Hey.” Frank pulled his foot back, setting it down on the rug outside the shower. “Hot shower okay?”

“Yeah.” Why did Bill always feel like his voice quavered when he answered? He was a full as fucking adult, not a teenager, but Frank dragged out an uncertainty in him. And yet Frank didn’t seem to judge that uncertainty.

Frank reached for the belt on Bill’s robe, taking hold of and end and giving it a slow pull until it came undone. The robe fell open and Frank raked his gaze over Bill, down his body and back up as his lips curved into a smile. He slid his hands under the robe and along Bill’s skin, and Bill shivered as Frank’s hands came to rest on his hips. He pulled Bill against him and- oh god. He reveled in the warmth of Frank against him and caught his breath when he realized that Frank was getting harder by the moment.

Hard for him.

Nothing could have sent a jolt to his cock faster than the physical confirmation that Frank wanted him, which Bill marveled at. Frank wanted him.

Frank moved his hands along Bill’s sides and up over his chest. He continued up to Bill’s shoulders and took hold of the edge of the bathrobe, pushing it off Bill’s shoulders. Bill felt it slither down his body with Frank’s help, pooling on the floor by his feet. Frank’s eyes stared into him, intense, and Bill couldn’t sustain the eye contact. He closed his eyes and felt the touch of Frank’s fingers against his cheeks, followed by his lips against Bill’s.

He rested his hands on Frank’s hips, finally the layers of fabric gone, and he brushed his fingers against Frank’s skin. The ease of touch fought with the complication of thought and won, leading Bill to set aside his concerns about talk of meeting parents. There were far more immediate considerations, like the way Frank dragged his nails across the skin on Bill’s back.

Frank hummed. “We look good together.” He tucked his fingers under Bill’s chin and tilted his head towards the mirror. Bill opened his eyes and stared at his own reflection, making eye contact with Frank in the mirror. Frank shifted Bill to face the mirror and moved behind him, putting his arms around him. He stroked Bill’s chest from behind, and Bill felt every burning kiss that Frank laid along his shoulder. His fingers moved to trace the tattoos on Bill’s arms.

Bill thought the man in the mirror that wore his face looked like he would bolt, but he stood up straighter and turned in Frank’s arms, kissing him. He needed this to move away from staring in the mirror. He pushed Frank backwards to the edge of the bathtub and Frank stepped over it, under the water. Bill followed, feeling less graceful, but Frank’s smile wiped all of that away as Bill positioned Frank under the water.

“There you are,” Frank murmured, sending a shiver down Bill’s spine. The water splashed down his body, as he lifted his head to immerse himself in the water, closing his eyes. He stepped out from under the water and shifted around Bill to guide him backwards under the shower head.

He closed his eyes against the water falling down, the vulnerability of it all rising up and threatening to drown him. He forced in a breath through his mouth and let it out through his nose. He heard the sound of a bottle opening, and Frank led him forward just enough to get his head out of the water. The sound of shampoo being squeezed out, the bottle set aside. A series of sounds, layered with the sound of water. The air felt heavy and thick, the world outside the shower gone.

No sight, only sound, and Bill could feel the things that fluttered in his stomach. And that’s when Frank tucked his fingers against Bill’s scalp and started washing his hair.

Bill wanted to whimper from the relief of the touch, of the security of it. Since when did showering feel so safe? His skin tingled with the contact and he felt himself swaying on his feet. He put his hands on Frank’s hips, anchoring his palms but grasping him with his fingers. Frank let out a hiss and Bill realized he likes that.

He wanted Frank to feel good, good like he felt, so he used one hand to steady himself and the other to explore Frank. He wanted to watch, he wanted to see Frank’s reaction, but the shampoo ran down his face, over his eyes, and he couldn’t open them. No, he’d have to do this by touch. Up to the rough hair on Frank’s chest, and he so desperately wanted to see what his hand looked like against Frank’s skin.

Was Frank smiling? Was he still hard? Did he notice that Bill himself wasn’t so hard, because he was just lost in the feeling? Would he judge him for that?

Frank’s fingers worked their way into Bill’s shoulder length hair, cradling his head in his hands. It washed over him literally and figuratively, the intimacy of it.

“Let’s rinse that off.” Frank guided Bill back under the water and Bill held his breath. He looked stupid, he knew that, but Frank kept running his hands through Bill’s hair. “We should get you some better conditioner.”

“Conditioner’s fine,” Bill muttered through the water on his face. “No need to get flowery about it.”

“Doesn’t have to be flowery, but you have gorgeous hair and you should take care of it.” Frank pulled him forward and put conditioner in Bill’s hair, massaging it in. As his fingers dug into Bill’s scalp, he leaned forward and put his forehead against Bill’s.

The casual intimacy of it hit Bill hard and he leaned into Frank, feeling still for the first time in years. Frank’s hands worked along the back of his head, occasionally brushing his thumbs over Bill’s cheeks.

Bill blinked, opening his eyes and looking at Frank. He wanted to say something but there wasn’t anything to say, and anything he’d come up with would ruin the moment entirely. And while he couldn’t admit it, he loved this quiet, physical communication. So he didn’t speak, just ran his hands over Frank’s back, tracing the shapes of his muscles.

Frank shifted and kissed Bill’s eyebrow, forcing Bill to close his eyes again. Frank pulled off the handheld shower head and started rinsing off Bill’s hair. Bill stood still, waiting, more thoughts than he could capture spinning through his head and falling away.

After putting the shower head back, Frank stepped back, pulling Bill with him. Bill pulled his hands back and wiped the water from his eyes. Frank stood there, smiling, and Bill could feel the warmth growing on his face as he reached for the shampoo bottle.

As he wrapped his fingers around it, Frank pulled him close, and the bottle tumbled to the floor and skittered to the other side of the shower. Frank started chuckling. “One of us either has to bend over and get that, or maybe my hair can wait.”

Bill nodded, not trusting himself to bend over or to watch Frank and instead reached for a washcloth and got it wet, running it over a bar of soap. He gestured to Frank to turn around and waited until Frank turned from him. Bill let out a slow breath, glad to not make eye contact. Just for a bit.

He started scrubbing in circles on Frank’s back, and Frank let out a sigh and a sound that almost sounded like a purr.

“I know it’s not the same,” Bill murmured, “but…”

“It’s perfect. Because you’re reaching all the spots I couldn’t reach myself.”

Bill didn’t have any idea how to wash another person, but how hard could it be? Just follow each line, each muscle, and-

He found himself below Frank’s waist and faltered. He wasn’t ready for this, and something must have tipped Frank off because he turned to Bill. He took the washcloth. “You made me breakfast, I can take care of myself.”

“I want to,” Bill protested.

“There’s time.” Frank leaned over and kissed him, pulling their bodies together and sliding against Bill. Soap ran between them, and Bill felt the jolt through his body, the tightness in his cock that he’d managed to ignore with the distraction of Frank’s attention. “I’m going to clean myself up and step out. I’ll be in your bedroom.”

It wasn’t a question and Bill honed in on in your bedroom. Frank turned from him and then back, rinsing out the washcloth and taking the shower head down to rinse himself off. And Bill slunk awkwardly back, torn between watching and looking away.

Frank, thankfully, finished quickly, then ran the washcloth over the soap and handed it to Bill. “Don’t make me wait long,” Frank murmured, slipping out through the shower curtain.

Now Bill found himself alone, and he let out a long breath he didn’t know he’d started holding. He wasn’t going to hurry so much that he missed anything, but even his own touch was overwhelming. But not having Frank there gave him a moment to focus.

He wasn’t an expert on sex. In fact, he wasn’t even an amateur, and all attempts to take this to a logical conclusion failed. He turned off the water and stood there, dripping. Far from being completely innocent, despite his lack of experience, Bill could work out the conclusion. His heart beat hard in his chest, his pulse sounding in his ears.

Outside of the shower, he dried himself off with a fresh towel. No use trying to dry his hair but even trying to made him think about Frank’s fingers digging into his scalp. It still tingled along his skin. He wrapped a towel around his waist and went into the bedroom.

Frank stood by the bed and looked over his shoulder back at Bill. He’d turned off the lights, the room now illuminated only by the light coming through the window. Bill walked to him, his mind racing. Now what?

Frank put his arms around Bill and slid the down his back, tucking his fingers under the edge of the towel and causing it to let go, dropping to the floor. “I’m going to make this easy, if I can. Is that alright?”

Bill nodded, unable to make eye contact. Easy, then. Bill wasn’t an idiot, he knew what Frank meant, just not what any of this meant. Frank took his hand and led him to the chair that had previously held their clothes, guiding Bill to sit down. It felt like a scene from the club, but also completely different. Nothing stood between them, no clothes, no sexy bullshit.

All he had to do was focus on Frank. He’d be fine. So he fought to stay calm, despite the heartbeat frantic in his chest, when Frank went down to his knees in front of him. Kissing down his chest, over his stomach, running his hands over Bill’s body. Bill craved the feeling of Frank’s skin under his fingertips and put his hands on Frank’s arms as they came to rest on his thighs.

Frank kissed the inside of Bill’s thigh, drawing a ragged breath out of Bill. Looking pleased, he ran a hand down Bill’s other thigh. Bill dragged his fingernails along Frank’s scalp and felt it in his belly when Frank closed his eyes and turned his head to kiss the inside of Bill’s wrist.

“You’re so good,” Frank murmured and Bill thought he’d pass out from anticipation, from the offhanded compliment that Frank sounded like he meant.

He wanted to be good, for Frank. He wanted to be everything for Frank. God what the fuck was he even thinking, he should be terrified as tension pulled at him but-

Frank raked his nails along Bill’s thigh and Bill squirmed in his chair. He’d moved like this in front of Bill before, but not for him. Not with this intensity in Frank’s eyes, the way his mouth curled up into a smile when he looked up at Bill from between his legs.

Please. He craved a release, but more than that, he just wanted to feel the connection between them. “Frank…”

Frank placed his hands on Bill’s knees and looked up at him and Bill felt all the breath go out of his lungs as he put his hand on Frank’s. It was the most encouragement he could muster. If he opened his mouth, he’d beg. He couldn’t beg. He needed to know if it was real, that Frank wanted him. Frank smirked, licking his lips, and-

Oh god. Thoughts and sensations collided together, battering at the inside of Bill’s head. He closed his eyes, surrendering and letting Frank carry him away.

Chapter Text

Frank focused on each even, steady breath, a contented smile stuck to his face. He rested his head on Bill’s shoulder, and Bill ran his fingers through Frank’s hair. It felt like heaven.

Bill, true to his word, didn’t know what to do. But he was a fast learner, responding in the most delicious ways. Starting out hesitant, tense, and biting his own lip. Frank ran his hands over Bill’s body, worked him with his mouth, until finally Bill relaxed and let out a sigh that may as well have been a porn star moan for what it did to Frank’s cock.

Bill made none of the rookie mistakes, he didn’t hold onto Frank’s head, he didn’t thrust his hips, and he’d given a strangled warning that he was close (which Frank ignored). And he heaped attention upon Frank with his fingers. Light, subtle touches, nothing that demanded more from Frank, but felt like appreciation. Frank reveled in it, in the way Bill ran his fingers through Frank’s hair but without limiting his movement. He couldn’t remember the last time he enjoyed giving a blow job that much.

It didn’t take Bill long to spill himself into Frank’s mouth, and Frank didn’t stop until Bill let out a choked please, his hands curling against Frank’s shoulders. He sat in the chair, his eyes closed, Frank resting his head on Bill’s stomach. Bill never stopped running his fingers over Frank’s skin, not until Frank helped him to stand and they moved to the bed.

Frank hadn’t thought far enough ahead about how he’d find his own release, and his cock throbbed uncomfortably. He thought about letting it go, he’d dealt with worse.

“How can I…” Bill trailed off. He looked lost, confused.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Frank soothed.

“I want to.” Bill pressed Frank onto his back and slid his hand down Frank’s stomach, but it didn’t feel right. He needed something closer, more intimate, than a hand job. And he wasn’t about to ask Bill to suck his dick, either (some days were not the right day to teach the finer points of dick sucking, although Frank would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that the idea of Bill learning to suck cock made him lightheaded in the best of ways). No, this called for something else.

“Let me try something,” Frank said, rolling on his side to face Bill.

Bill pressed his lips together, looking away, then nodded. “Okay.”

Frank retrieved a towel from the bathroom just to be safe and rummaged through his suitcase for lube (always be prepared). He proved it into his hand and coated his entire length with it.

Bill looked more nervous by the moment. “What do you want me to do?”

“Stay just like that.” Frank wrapped his arm around Bill’s waist and slid his cock between the juncture of Bill’s thighs, moving against him. “That ok?” he murmured.

Bill closed his eyes and nodded, his lips parted. He ran his fingers over Frank’s ribcage, then down to cup Frank’s ass with his hand. Frank moaned, deep in the warmth of Bill’s thighs. He delighted in the sound of Bill’s breath, the way their bodies came together.

Then Bill leaned forward and kissed him, and it set Frank on fire. Some guys wouldn’t kiss the man that just sucked their dick, but Bill didn’t let that stop him. His kisses were gentle but urgent, and Frank all but shook with the anticipation. Frank thrust faster, finding that perfect friction point. Bill moved with him, finding the rhythm that Frank set, and it felt so fucking perfect and complete and this was just Bill’s thighs. God, how would his ass feel?

He wrapped his fingers around the back of Bill’s neck. “Open your eyes,” he whispered.

Bill’s eyelids fluttered open and that was all Frank saw before he closed his eyes. Maybe Bill wouldn’t feel self conscious about watching if Frank wasn’t watching him back. He focused on the feel of Bill’s legs, the way his hips moved with Frank’s, the sound of his breathing. He spilled between Bill’s thick, beautiful thighs, his breaths ragged, riding the ongoing pleasure.

After they finished and cleaned up, Bill held out his arm, a quiet invitation for Frank to put his head on his shoulder. Frank took the opening, letting Bill hold him. Bill’s fingers skimmed Frank’s skin, and he turned his head to kiss the top of Frank’s head.

“How do you know where to touch?” Frank murmured.

“Lucky guess.”

A moment of quiet, of rest, of silence. This felt right. He felt relaxed, and he hadn’t even noticed how sore he’d been until he didn’t feel it any longer. Sex could be a good painkiller sometimes.

He rested a hand on Bill’s chest, moving in circles over the hair on his chest. Bill’s chest rose and fell, and Frank anchored himself to that. A moment to be still.

He thought about washing Bill’s hair. “I’ve wanted to do that since I first sketched your hair.”

Bill’s strokes on Frank’s arm paused. “Which part?”

“Washing your hair. But the rest was amazing.”

Bill let out of a breath, not saying anything.

“And yes, I mean you’re amazing.” Frank stretched.

Something pulled up in his chest and he tried to push it down. Worry for his father, worry for his family, worry, worry, worry. He could feel himself tensing up and he didn’t want to lay down the incoming storm on Bill.

“I’ll be right back.” He rolled out of bed, not asking eye contact with Bill, and went into the bathroom. He closed the door behind him and put his hands on the counter, wrapping his hands around the edge.

In the mirror, his weary reflection stared back at him. Bags under his reddened eyes, his hair a mess, his whole posture slumping. How was his dad? Jeff?

The doctor had said it would catch up with him, and Frank felt it acutely. Even his ankle felt it today, a final fuck you on top of everything else. And he still didn’t know if his father would regain consciousness, if he’d resume a normal life, if he’d have brain damage, any of it. He resented the dual feelings in him, the contentment he should be feeling warring with the pain.

He squeezed his eyes shut as the helplessness washed over him. He stared at himself in the mirror. When did he start looking so old? Maybe when the gray hairs started. And if he was old… well. His father had 34 years on him.  

A knock on the door. “Frank? You okay?”

Frank let out a breath and didn’t look up. “Yeah.”

Bill paused before replying. “Can I come in?”

Frank wanted to say no of course not. He didn’t want Bill to see him vulnerable. Vulnerability was something for others to show to Frank, not for Frank to let others see.

But Bill still waited on the other side of that door. Frank drew a shaking breath, pulling on his best neutral expression. “Sure.”

Bill opened the door and stepped into the room, his bathrobe in one hand and Frank’s cellphone in the other. He set the phone down on the counter and draped the robe over Frank’s shoulders, placing a hand on his back. Frank craved the simple comfort of the contact.

“Do you need anything?”

“I don’t know.” Frank sighed, pulling the bathrobe closer around him.

Bills took there for a moment, looking down. “I’ll give you a minute.”

Bill stepped back and left the bathroom, and Frank watched his backside as he went. He liked the curve of Bill’s hips, the shape of his shoulders, the way he walked. He put his arms into the worn bathrobe, hearing Bill in the background. Frank sat down on the edge of the bathtub, feeling numb. He checked his messages and still nothing of substance. The hours so far had felt like days.

A number of people checking in after seeing the news, and Frank didn’t even want to deal with that. He started mindlessly scrolling Facebook, until he saw the video from the night before come up in his feed. Just seeing his father laying on the floor of the club started the downward spiral all over again.

He set the phone down and burrowed into the bathrobe, breathing in the scent of Bill’s soap. He should be shouting about this from the rooftops, about how it felt to feel connected to someone like this. Doubt crept in. Had the timing been wrong? Was he mistaking this shared experience they’d gone through the night before as something else?

His own words flitted through his head. No, he’d wanted this. He’d planned on much more, before everything went wrong. He’d wanted to lay Bill down and explore every inch of him, find birthmarks that most people didn’t know existed, discover where he was ticklish, all the exploration that made a person fascinating. And Bill was fascinating, for someone he hardly knew anything about.

Frank fought for a breath and slumped forward, putting his head in his hands as the tears swelled up. He wiped them away and pushed out the sounds of a cracking ribcage from his mind.

In the other room, Frank could hear the creaking of the bed, then scraping noises. He blinked, wondering what he was up to. Curiosity won over reaction and Frank stood, wiping off his face with a washcloth. He stepped out into the bedroom, pulling the bathrobe around him.

In the bedroom, Bill had put on a pair of sweats and now stood on the bed, adjusting Frank’s paining on the wall.

“Overdue to get rid of that weird picture of my mother’s,” Bill muttered, sitting down and sliding off the bed.

Frank felt himself overwhelmed by affection for this man. He looked from Bill to the wall, staring. It looked right there, the colors flowing into the blue of the wall, somehow a perfect fit. A sign. A new feeling rose up. Hope, maybe. “Are you sure? That you want to look at a painting of mine every day?”

“I didn’t buy it to not look at it.”

Frank held out his hand to Bill, and Bill tucked his hand into Frank’s. “Thank you.” He leaned in to kiss Bill. “My coffee is probably cold by now, isn’t it?”

Bill chuckled. “Yeah. But maybe if we get dressed I can make you some fresh coffee.”

“I’d take some coffee.” Frank pondered it for a moment. Who was this man that appreciated art but only tangentially, who made amazing omelets, and who apparently had a secret bunker in his basement? Now that’s a thought. “Maybe some coffee and you could show me this bunker you’ve talked about.”

Bill stiffened. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Please?” He’d stubborn, Frank knew that. “I promise I won’t judge, or tell anyone.”

Bill’s face said everything but also nothing. “It’s none of your business. That’s my space.”

“So you don’t trust me.”

“Not what I said.” Bill pressed his lips together. “Why are you pushing on it?”

Frank could see the suspicion in Bill’s face. “Is there anything wrong with wanting to know more about you? Besides, what’s the worst you can have down there? A collection of dirty magazines?” Frank pondered. “Or I could just go for a run around the neighborhood.”

“No, you’re not going out in my neighborhood after being on the news.”

Frank could have read something different into that, but he knew what Bill meant. “Then find me something else to do since I’m restless.”

Bill sighed. “Fine. But put some clothes on.” He grabbed a shirt and pulled it on, rounding on Frank. “And you’re not gonna touch anything.”

Frank grinned, a surge of triumph going through him. “You know I’m better at taking clothes off.”

“Don’t push it, I’m already regretting this.”

Frank retrieved his clothes, pushing down his curiosity. What, exactly, would he find in the basement? He had no idea, but Frank supposed he was about to find out. Who are you, Bill?

He supposed he was at least step closer to figuring out the enigma that he’d just shared a bed with.

Chapter Text

As bad ideas went, Bill thought this was one of the worst. Everything had been going fine, great, even. Nice. Maybe if he hadn’t hung that painting up, he wouldn’t have tempted the fate of whatever the fuck this was. Too late now, just like everything else with Frank.

Bill had known from the start that Frank would challenge him. He hadn’t anticipated the situation to escalate from a night in the hospital with Frank’s family, sleeping with a hard on, making breakfast, getting his dick sucked, letting a this man fuck his thighs, and a trip down to his safe emergency bunker that he’d never let anyone except his sister into.

This was everything he’d taught himself to avoid. This was why he avoided human connection, and another example of how Frank’s very presence tainted his judgement.

Bill’s stomach knotted at the idea that Frank would leave after seeing the rest of Bill’s home. He’d wanted to put this off until as long as he could, to bask in the warmth that was Frank before Frank realized what he’d gotten into. Before Frank knew his secrets, which he’d probably tell to fucking Steve.

Maybe he could pretend he forgot the code, or that there was a gas leak. No, Frank wouldn’t buy either option. All the contingencies that Bill had, and finally the situation he didn’t have one for. The one possibility he hadn’t prepared for. Every solution felt absurd, as absurd as the very thought that he would ever be in this situation.

“I’ll make some coffee,” Bill offered, stiff as he turned away from Frank.

“Thanks.” Frank sat down at the table in the kitchen, blessedly quiet.

Bill measured the coffee with care, using the beans he’d ground that morning. Precise spoonfuls into the machine, delicate ratios that could make or break a good cup of coffee. To avoid any potential spills downstairs, he pulled down two travel cups from a cabinet.

He could spill hot coffee on himself, he supposed. That would be an out. Or he could just tell Frank “no” and see what happened next.

The room filled with the sound of percolating coffee, and Frank flinched. “Ever notice how coffee machines sound like someone’s breathing right before death?”

“The fuck? I can’t say that I have.”

“I’m serious! The first time I heard it, I couldn’t brew coffee for two weeks.”

“Sounds like a shit two weeks.” Bill opened the travel containers, one in black and one in dark blue, and put his hands flat on the counter. He curled his fingers under his hands, pressing his knuckles against the countertop’s cool surface.

Moments like this, the coffee felt like it took longer. A watched pot never percolates.

Finally he heard the last dying gasps of the last of the water emptying out through the filter and immediately hated the words “last dying gasps.” He poured coffee into the travel cups and sealed the lids tightly, skipping on cream or sugar since Frank hadn’t asked for either so far. “It’s going to be hot,” he muttered.

“I’ll be careful.” Frank got to his feet and took the blue travel cup, stupid smug smile on his face again. “You really don’t want me spilling anything on your stuff, do you?”

“Or anywhere that it shouldn’t be,” Bill muttered. He took his own cup and headed towards the basement door. He paused for a moment, putting his hand on it, and turning the knob. He pulled the door open and started down the stairs. He didn’t bother locking it when he was here; after all, even if they made it to the basement, they’d never find the bunker if they didn’t know where to look. Why risk someone kicking the door down and suspecting more, when he could just leave it unlocked and let the hidden nature of the bunker be it’s best defense?

“Careful, stairs are narrow. Use the handrail.” Last thing he needed was Frank rolling his ankle on his stairs.

“Got it.”

At the bottom of the stairs, Bill stepped towards his wine rack. Maybe he could convince Frank this was the bunker, that this was all there was to it. An old 70s couch. A wine rack. Some bookshelves. Exactly what he wanted people to see.

No there’s no way Frank would ever fall for that.

“Whoa, nice collection!” Frank paused at the wine, leaning in to look at one of the labels. He reached out and swiped at the dust on the bottle with a finger.

“Didn’t I say don’t touch anything?” Bill snapped.

“You technically said in the bunker and this clearly isn’t a bunker.”

“I didn’t technically say shit,” Bill shot back.

This was a mistake.

Frank crossed the room, past the entrance for the bunker, and Bill stepped forward, ready to intervene. But Frank didn’t notice anything as far as Bill could tell, and instead dropped down on the couch, sipping at his coffee. He recoiled as soon as he lifted the cup. “Right, hot.” He leaned back, in that infuriatingly comfortable way that Frank sat on everything. As if he belonged everywhere he went. He held the cup in his hands. “You don’t actually have to show it to me.”

Relief filled Bill and he started to turn back towards the stairs. “Good,” he muttered.

“Wait. I’m not saying don’t. I’m saying you don’t have to if it really makes you that uncomfortable.”

“You already know it makes me uncomfortable.”

“Getting to know someone is uncomfortable.” Frank let out a slow breath, setting his coffee cup down on the table. “And there comes a point where you maybe can’t turn back, once someone’s seen you. Are you okay with that?”

An out. A few minutes ago, that’s all Bill had wanted. Frank seeing the bunker, this very specific part of Bill’s life, risked changing everything. It risked scaring Frank away. Bill really wan’t ready for that. But he wasn’t ready for any of this. “This some kind of test?”

Frank laughed and Bill stiffened. This wasn’t funny.

“It’s not a test. Really.” Frank picked up his coffee. “But I was a paramedic for a lot of years. I’m really hard to freak out.”

It felt like a challenge. All of Frank felt like a challenge, and not the kind of challenge that Bill usually welcomed, either.

Fine. If he just got this out of the way, he could stop being on edge of when Frank would ask again, what Frank would think. If he freaked out, he probably wouldn’t tell anyone. He kept a lot of secrets in his job. Maybe he didn’t want Frank to give him an out, maybe he wanted to draw the line before Frank could give him that. There would come a time that this would be a conflict. Bill knew that.

If Frank was going to have an issue with perhaps the strangest part of Bill’s life… well. Better now than later. Before Bill got in too deep.

“Stay here,” Bill muttered. “I gotta clean some shit up.”

“You got it.”

Bill turned before he could see whatever shit eating grin Frank would give him. He slid the hidden keypad aside, entering the code. The door slid aside with a slight amount of friction that made him think he needed to do a round of maintenance when he had a minute. What an absurd concept lately, free time.

He flipped on the light, ignoring Frank’s surprised gasp, and descended into the one true sanctuary he had as the lights flickered to life, their sharp glow filling the space. The stairs creaked under his feet. He left all the cabinets of firearms closed typically, but now he went through and locked each of them as well. There was no use to Frank seeing exactly what he had, and if he asked, Bill would be within his right to tell Frank “no.” His therapist would have probably told him that it’s setting good boundaries, or some other bullshit. He supposed that’s why he didn’t go to therapy anymore, easier to just build a bigger fence. Then he didn’t have to negotiate any fucking boundaries.

He checked to be sure that his computer was locked and tidied up a few other things in the space. He didn’t bother turning off the monitors for the cameras. One of the lights on the far side of the bunker flickered more than usual, suggesting that it would die soon. About time to change these out to LEDs, anyway.

Looking around the room, he pushed his lips together into a frown. Wasn’t even that exciting like this, with everything put away. Workbenches with whatever tools required better lighting and focus than out in the garage, shelves of books, supplies, emergency rations.

Well. Good enough.

He went back up the stairs to find that Frank hadn’t moved. Somehow. “Come on down. Don’t touch anything.”

Frank’s face lit up and Bill felt a swell of warmth as Frank got to his feet, holding the coffee cup in his hands. Bill led him down the stairs, pushing down the feeling in his chest. At the bottom of the stairs, he stepped aside, waiting for Frank to finish his descent. He watched Frank like a hawk, avoiding looking at his face. He didn’t bother closing the heavy door behind them; they wouldn’t be down there long if he could help it.

“Oh wow!” Frank stepped off the last step. “This is huge! You’ve got a whole workshop down here.”

“Yeah.” Bill set his cup down on his desk.

“I have so many questions. Which I won’t ask.” He looked around the room and headed for the chair near Bill’s desk, the one that Becca usually sat in. “You’ve got everything. It must have taken years to collect all of this!”

Bill didn’t reply, waiting for Frank to sit before he sat down in his own chair. He wasn’t going to give Frank any more info than he had to.

Frank slid down into the old leather chair in the corner, and Bill remembered what a pain that chair had been to get down here. He’d only brought it down because Becca couldn’t fit it in her old apartment, and she said she was tired of sitting on “a fucking crate in a corner.”

“Can we just stay down here? No one can find us. Eat some…” Frank scanned the shelf next to him, full of MREs. “Chicken cavatelli?”

“Don’t do that to yourself,” Bill muttered, sitting down and rolling backwards, not wanting to be too close to Frank. It was easier to watch someone that way.

“That bad?” Frank’s chuckle brought a warmth to the bunker that Bill had never experienced. “How is it compared to Olive Garden pasta?”

“Marginally better.”

Frank nodded, taking a drink of his coffee then focusing on the shelf below the MREs. Frank extracted a single magazine, tucked between two boxes. Bill recognized it and reached for it, a sinking feeling coming over him. “Don’t touch that.”

Frank set his coffee down on the floor and flipped through the magazine, and Bill felt his face go beet red. “I had this issue, years ago. I remembered…” Frank landed on a page about halfway through. “This! This photoshoot is a modern classic.”

Bill snatched the magazine out of Frank’s hands. “Not your business.” He reached past Frank and lifted a box lid, tucking the magazine inside. Shame filled him, embarrassment. What would his parents have said? What would anyone have said?

Frank didn’t say anything, just picked his coffee up off the floor. “I’m not trying to pry. It’s just… this is a far better distraction than my phone.”

“Everything is a better distraction than those things.” Bill let out a long breath. “Look. No one but Becca has ever been down here. Is it helping?”

“Yeah, it is. Could use some more reading material, though.”

Bill frowned. “No one reads those for the articles.”

“Oh, don’t I know it.” Frank settled into the chair and Bill relaxed now that Frank seemed less interested in Bill’s stuff. “Look, I know you really didn’t need me down here. Or want me down here.”

Bill wanted to tell him that it wasn’t right to have distraction at the expense of Bill’s comfort, but something in Frank’s tone stopped him. He’d almost lost his father last night. It was hard to believe that just the other night, they’d been in a completely different situation. A more simple one. Bill had never dealt with this level of complication before, with a relationship before. He forced himself back into the space he’d needed to be in when Becca was in chemo, the space where he’d had to learn to think outside of himself. He didn’t know how to be emotionally present, he never had learned how to. He hid in the places that no one could see him, and it wasn’t lost on him that he’d let Frank into the one place that was closest to him. His only place where he didn’t have to pretend.

Emotionally constipated but not stupid. “What do you need?”

“Can I stay a few days? Just until things sort of calm down.”

A lot of logistical nightmares went through Bill’s head, most of them pertaining to how Frank would go see his father, or if Frank possessed the self control to stay in the house. He stared down at his hand on Frank’s leg. It shouldn’t fit there, but it did. It made as much sense as anything else. “Yeah. That’s fine.”

Frank picked up his coffee and got to his feet. Bill pulled his hand back. “Thanks for letting me come see.”

“Had to find out what I meant by bunker before you asked to stay for a few days?”

Frank tensed. “Do you blame me? I’ve seen a lot, Bill. A lot.”

“Yeah but I’m not any of those things.” He wasn’t one of those people, he just minded his own business.

“Bill.” Frank’s level negotiator voice. “I just asked to stay. Can that be enough?”

Bill nodded. Because at that point, what more could he do? He’d already fallen about as far as his basement stairs would go. “Sure. If you want to.” He paused. “I’m going to check on things down here. I’ll meet you upstairs. Door’s open.”

“You’ve got it.” Frank leaned in to kiss Bill on the cheek, then picked up his coffee and headed for the stairs. Bill stayed where he was, listening to the soft tread of Frank’s footfalls until they faded. The bunker fell quiet, except for the faint hum of the fans in his PC.

Bill wondered how long Frank’s warmth would last on the chair’s surface. He checked the cameras, double checked the locks on the cabinets. Ensured everything was in place, in order.

The smell of coffee lingered, a reminder that someone else had been here, that he’d let them in.

He turned off the lights, casting the room into darkness. By the time he climbed the stairs and shut the bunker’s door behind him, the bunker looked untouched. Like no one had ever been there at all, reset, safe again. He let out a slow breath and went back upstairs to find Frank.

At the top of the stairs, Bill turned toward the kitchen to wash his cup, setting it upside down to dry. As he straightened, his eyes caught on the painting hanging across the room. The chicken.

Bright, impossible to ignore, a little out of place, while taking up the perfect amount of space. Just very slightly crooked. He could fix it, but then it would look too much like it belonged there.

He chose to leave it alone.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon stretched into an itch Frank couldn’t scratch. He texted his family, he checked his phone, he watched Bill from between the curtains as he fed the chickens. Pacing between the back door and the living room as he struggled to find the space that he fit into. A puzzle piece trying to find it’s matching hole.

Frank longed for the sunshine on his face. It wouldn’t take more than a moment, to step out onto the porch. A few deep breaths, filling his lungs.

A couple walked by outside the front of the house, along the street, an eager golden retriever tugging them behind. Would they wave back if he waved?

No. After Bill had given him so much trust with the bunker, Frank didn’t want to push another boundary. Not yet. Not today.

So he felt the golden light through the window, through the curtains, drinking it up as if he were parched. But Frank recognized the feeling in him, the one that overcame him when he sat in the station waiting for a call. Too quiet.

To even think the word felt taboo. In emergency medicine, no one said the “q word” out loud. Everyone would avoid even the thought, a classic superstition and anyone who said it would be on the hook when things inevitably went to shit. And they always did.

Maybe Frank shouldn’t be thinking the word, either, but at least it would give an excuse for something to happen. Something to breathe through. He hated the tether that had always kept him from biting into his lunch because taking a bite of a taco was asking the universe to please, as soon as possible, fuck over your day.

At least a call had a response timeline, a protocol, an expectation. This? This didn’t have anything except time dripping like a leaky faucet, nagging at him, forcing him to box everything up.

He dropped down onto the couch in the living room and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. His phone buzzed and he grabbed for it. A UPS notification that the package to Amani (and by extension, Salim) had departed the next hub. Not the update he was looking for.

Footsteps stomped and scuffed, and he heard the back door open then shut. Bill’s boots predicted his arrival and Frank could feel Bill’s presence before he raised his eyes to focus on him. Solid. Comforting in a way he had no right to be. Frank froze, phone grasped in his hand.

“I’m putting you in timeout,” Bill muttered, reaching for the phone as he sat down. Frank considered protesting. What if someone called? What if they texted? What if…?

Frank let the phone go. He’d still hear it. In fact, if the q-word were any indication, it would be more likely to ring if he ignored it.  

Bill set the phone on the table. “They know where to find you.”

“What if I miss it?”

“I’ll tell Steve to call me if he can’t reach you.”

Frank snorted out a laugh. It eased the thread of tension that wedged itself between his shoulders, that held them up. “You don’t even know where your phone is.”

“I do. Always in the same place I leave it to ignore it.”

“Are you trying to get my phone to join yours in joint neglect?”

“Maybe.”

It felt normal. Domestic.

Bill put his hand on Frank’s back, just below his neck, and moved in small, quiet circles. Constant, consistent pressure, now with an external source. It pulled at him like the dog had on the leash, drawing something out of his chest. The air felt too thick, cloying.

It wasn’t enough. “Bill…”

“What do you need?” Bill’s voice rumbled next to him.

“Is there anywhere we could… I don’t know. Go for a walk? Run?”

Bill’s hand stopped it’s circles. “Absolutely not.”

Frank nodded and slumped forward, pressing his lips together. “You asked.”

A silence stretched on, not the silence Frank wanted, the kind of silence that was about to ruin a meal. Strip clubs didn’t have silence. They had walls that vibrated with faraway bass, the chatter of too many voices, the oddly particular noise a pole made when it rattled in it’s brackets.

Homes had silence. Frank didn’t know if he could take it. The tension rushed back.

Fingers brushed the back of Frank’s neck, digging into the tension at the base of his skull.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Frank asked, closing his eyes and leaning into it.

“From you, in the shower this morning. I’m a faster learner I guess.” Bill sighed. “About some things.”

“Because your hands aren’t as stubborn as the rest of you.”

“Look, I’m just trying to…” Bill trailed off, pulling his hand back. “Okay. Come with me.”

Relief flooded Frank and he reached for his phone. Bill stopped him with a hand on his arm. “I’ll bring it to you. I promise.”

Frank pulled his hand back as Bill got to his feet, starting out of the room. Frank followed, the walk down the hallway feeling like a parallel to the night before. It felt like a different person that had walked down a hallway with Bill. Playful, just out of Bill’s reach. Why had that been so easy?

Because that had been Armond. Armond had no family, he only existed within the walls of the club. He didn’t hurt. He didn’t have people to lose.

Bill opened the door to the sunroom in the back. “Faces the back yard. No one to really see you back here.” He crossed to the far end of the small enclosed patio, adjusting the one chair in the room to face the yard. “It’s not a run. Or a walk.”

Frank peered into the little room. Ledges with empty pots, a long disused potting bench. The chair called to him, white wicker with a green floral cushion. The smell of dirt, of air, of… He breathed it in, letting it fill him. He took a step into the room and sat down in the chair, looking up at Bill. “I think it’s better than that.”

“Let me get the phone for you.” Bill slid past him back into the house.

Frank gazed out over the yard, drawing in a deep breath. It would get cold quickly. He should be at the hospital, he should go to the hospital. There’s be no updates, though. The last update said there’d be imaging done first thing Monday morning, after the swelling had subsided. He knew how this went, family members circling like they’re stuck in traffic and waving at the line of cars in front of them. As if they could be dismissed, as if it sped up the wait.

Bill’s yard invited him to explore, tall trees reaching for the sky. The leaves were starting to turn, making Frank feel a pang in his chest. It was likely beautiful to see fall here, with the rich colors of the leaves. And summer before that, in all the warmth. Spring. The sunroom would be cold in winter, but a sweater, a blanket…

No wonder Bill loved just being at home. Frank supposed he would, too.

His eyes drifted over the watering can again, feeling like he should draw it.

The door to the house opened and Bill set Frank’s sketchbook, a box of pencils, and Frank’s phone down on the nearest ledge.

“It was on top of your bag. I didn’t snoop through your shit.”

Frank put his hand on the sketchbook. Bill had known, before Frank had known. Before he’d asked. “Thank you.”

Bill nodded and headed back out towards the shed, back to his errands. Frank checked his texts then put his phone aside, turning his attention towards the sketchbook. An old battered watering can wouldn’t draw itself.

In the evening hours, Frank found himself restless again, pages of sketches filled up. He’d texted his family, he’d texted Tess, but he felt like he watched everything from far away. Visiting hours had come and gone, and Frank had told himself every way he could that he could wait until tomorrow to go to the hospital.

After dinner, Bill pushed his plate aside and sighed. “You’re making me stir crazy now. Just go to the hospital.”

“Do you want to come with me?” He watched Bill tense. “I don’t expect it,” he added. “I can get a ride over with Steve. I just need to check in, and it’s hard to do from my phone.”

“You think?” Bill got to his feet and collected Frank’s plate. “Look, go take care of what you need to do. I’m here whenever you need me.” He frowned. “Hang on.” He dipped out of the dining room through the door, and it swung hard behind him.

Frank finished his wine and folded his napkin, leaving it on the table. He wanted to settle, he wanted to stay, but he wouldn’t sleep if he didn’t go. He knew that.

He texted Steve, who confirmed he was already next door, dropping off some items from their other house during a break in the hospital visits. That Steve had breaks in his visits made Frank feel even worse.

Frank started to his feet as Bill came back into the dining room, setting something small and metallic down on the table. A weight and heft far past it’s tiny footprint.

“Let yourself in. Don’t care if it’s late.”

The key sat on the table, pristine in the way that a spare key that had never been loaned out before was. “Are you sure? I can stay somewhere else if I’ll wake you up.”

“Up to you. Just let me know if you’re not coming h-“ Bill bit the word off. “If you won’t be back tonight.”

Was he kidding? “What do you want?”

“To make more eggs and bacon than I can eat on my own tomorrow morning.”

Tomorrow morning.

At the hospital, holding the key in his pocket gave him something to focus on. The tiny piece of metal warmed in the pocket of his jeans, and he clung to it as he stepped to the door to his father’s room. Steve had stayed behind in the waiting area, due to the late night one guest protocol. Everyone else had gone home, even Jeff. According to Steve, Jeff got tired of the crappy hospital chairs and “the last thing he’d want is for me to be rolled out of here because I can’t stand up.” Steve’s impression of his own father was impeccable.

Frank drew in a breath and opened the door, pushing his way into the room. Even with the dimmed lights, it felt too bright, too harsh.

The ventilator let out a shaky rasp and Frank steadied himself. Crack. His body ached at the sound in his head, at the reminder of the sound.

He’d asked the nurse to give it to him professionally. Not like he was visiting family in the ICU, but like he knew enough. It wasn’t because he wanted to be treated like a former paramedic. It’s because he wanted to be treated like an adult.

“They intubated him on the way. He’s almost breathing, but it’s not quite there.”

He hated ventilated breathing, the mechanical motion, the stuttering jerk of the inhale, exhale, inhale. He didn’t even dwell on the intubation, he’d seen more of those than most people had a right to, even by medic standards.

“His O2 sat is holding.”

Something had to be holding, because it certainly wasn’t Frank. He crossed the room, trying to box up his own feelings against the persistent quiet beeping of monitors.

“We put on some music his husband said he’d like.”

Of course, it would be some 80s electronic dance music. If Jeff had his way, it would be piano music. It played softly from the TV, and Frank chuckled. Of all the things they’d have at the hospital.

He never liked how hospitals smelled, something in the too-clean of it all. Not like the streets. He’d always done better with blood than antiseptic. It all felt so… cold. Like his father’s hand would likely be.

“Six fractured ribs, fractured sternum.”

Relief flooded him when he realized that the gown and blanket covered the visual evidence of the damage. He’d never had to see the aftermath of his own work, and he didn’t want to. But he also did. He knew he’d done everything right, even after several years of not doing it.

The monitor beeped again and Frank looked up at the heart rhythm. Too organized, a spike before each beat. The nurse hadn’t mentioned the pacing wire.

“He’s sedated. He’ll be in an induced coma with lowered body temperature to slow down brain metabolism. We’ll do imaging to evaluate for anoxic brain injury.”

He stepped forward and put his hand on his father’s, confirming what he knew but also hitting harder than he imagined. No warmth, just cold and still. Static. Not alive but not dead. Maintained.

The ventilator forced another mechanical breath and Frank wished that he didn’t know what all of the monitors meant. Right now, being confused would be a lot easier. He hooked the nearby folding chair with his foot and dragged it over. It wasn’t comfortable, but it would do, and dragging over the big cushy chair meant letting go of his father’s hand while making enough noise to wake the dead.

Oof.

Life was messy, chaotic. And staring into the void of medical data, of ordered rhythm and robotic breathing…

“What a way to make the weekend too exciting, Dad.” Frank sighed. “Yesterday we had dinner. Normal day.”

Frank’s own voice felt like too much in the space, and he instead chose to hold his father’s hand in silence. Even though he hated all of the medical sounds and sites in the context of his father, something in the order calmed him. Everything that could have been done has been done, would be done. Objectively, if his father survived, it would be because a lot of people were fast on their feet. Himself included, and now that he could see the monitors, the interventions, something settled in him.

He stayed through several songs before he realized that it was just getting later, and probably Steve wanted to go home. “So I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He slipped out the door and stopped past the nurses’ station. “Thanks for letting me drop in late.”

“No problem. Might actually be easier, at least today.” She gestured down the hall. “If you need to avoid some of the potential traffic, there’s a less used elevator down the other direction. If you park across the street, you can take the underpass.”

“That’s a really good tip. And I appreciate it.”

“You’ve got it. Shouldn’t be bad this time of night, though. Good luck.”

He and Steve started back towards the car. “It’s not as bad as you thought, is it?”

“No.” Frank pulled his jacket closer around him.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m… fine. I think.”

“That doesn’t sound like you’re actually fine. But I’ll take it.” Steve glanced over at him. “So how’s Bill? Saw him give me a look from the porch when I pulled up.”

“Maybe he wanted to give you some eggs.”

“That was not a man that wanted to give me anything except a quick exit from his yard.” Steve chuckled. “But that’s probably every day.”

They chatted idly about the day at the hospital, a rotating door of family members, with Frank finally ready to hear it all. Frank took time to catch up on all the texts in more detail, texting the family back as Steve drove back to Lincoln.

Importantly, he texted Bill that he’d be back soon (not that he’d see it), and then he texted Tess. Just got out of the hospital with my dad. He’s stable. They’ll do imaging Monday. Sorry I’ve been quiet today.

You never have to apologize to me. You know that. A pause. I have tomorrow off, I’m planning on visiting the hospital. If you’re going to be there, let me know when. Would rather hug you in person.

I’d like that. Fuck. He wished he could just call her, but now it was 11pm, and she was at work. And 11pm on a Saturday… His ankle ached just thinking about it. He missed her voice at the end of a long day. How’s everything at the club?

It’s busy. We’ll catch up tomorrow. Get some rest. Joel and the girls send their love.

Thanks, Tess.

You got this. You staying with Bill tonight?

Yeah. He texted her a picture of the omelette from the morning.

Let’s catch up on that, too. He was really looking out for you last night.

I know. I broke off the customer thing. I had to.

Good. Tell him to not fuck it up.

Frank smiled. Say hi to everyone for me. Love ya. 

Steve pulled up in front of Bill’s house. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. See you tomorrow.” He hopped out while resisting the urge to hug his brother in law, then shut the door as he turned to look at Bill’s house.

Towering, white in the darkness, the porch light beckoning him in. Warm, welcoming. A soft amber glow came from a lamp in Bill’s bedroom.

Frank approached on the paved pathway, lit by moonglow and the light. Crickets sounded nearby, layering softly over the quiet. He reached for the key in his pocket, watching a moth dance around the light. An intricate dance driven by internal confusion, a navigational instinct broken by artificial interference. At least, that’s what Frank seemed to remember, that a light broke the natural state of things. 

Natural state.

The porch light wasn’t a natural state. A motion light, yes. But not a persistent welcome. Bill didn’t do welcomes.

This? This was a welcome.

The only thing keeping his hand steady was years of having to stay more steady through worse. He should have told his dad about the key. Or Tess. But… right now? This was his, with Bill. He’d drop the key if he thought on it too hard.

He unlocked the door, turning the knob to open it. He stepped inside and turned off the porch light, then shut the door behind him, certain to lock both the knob and the deadbolt. He walked through the house, quiet but not too quiet, letting the sound of the creaking stairs announce his arrival.

Upstairs, the door to the bedroom was cracked, and Frank peered in to find Bill already in bed, a book open next to him. Frank gently moved the book onto the nightstand, glancing at it. Leave it to Bill to be re-reading a guide about mushrooms while in bed.

“Bill?”

Bill stirred, reaching out a hand and placing it on Frank’s arm. His fingers curled against Frank’s jacket, and Frank wrapped his hand around Bill’s.

Frank yawned and realized that he would only get more tired. He kissed Bill on the forehead, along the part where his brow furrowed… right there. But not now. Now his brow was relaxed. 

“Just get in bed,” Bill muttered.

Frank wasn’t about to argue with that.