Distraction
Frank sighs in contentment as he stands beneath the shower head, reveling in the warm water. He doesn't know why, but Bill's shower gets a lot warmer a lot faster than the one he’s been using. In fact, he'd gotten so used to needing to turn the knob all the way, he almost burned himself initially.
He scrubs the dust from his hair and skin, deeply relieved to feel like a human again. He stays beneath the water until driven out by the threat of pruney fingers.
It may just be the novelty of being away from his personal chaos, but everything here seems like a goddamned luxury. The towel feels plush against his skin, like he's drying himself with a cloud. A few stray droplets of water drip from his hair, bringing with them the mild but lovely scent of pine shampoo.
Frank even feels like he looks better in Bill's bathroom mirror, healthier and more chipper, now that the steam has brought some color back to his skin. He smiles and his reflection smiles back, amused by the way his hair is already fluffing up.
With a grounding breath, Frank wraps the towel around his waist and steps out of the bathroom. He finds the guest room door closed and a set of clothing neatly folded on the bed – clothing he hadn't asked for, but that Bill had anticipated he needed. It makes him feel warm even as he's adjusting to the cooler air outside of the bathroom.
Upon closer inspection, Frank finds that the socks and underwear in the pile are still in their original packaging, unopened sets of three. He chuckles, because he wouldn't have minded either way, but of course Bill had thought of everything.
He dresses, intentionally leaving the button-up shirt completely open down the front. Is it a bit superfluous? Definitely. Is that going to stop him? Definitely not.
Frank steps out into the hall, brushing his overgrown bangs out of his eyes. The house is quiet, but he knows this doesn't mean that he's alone. Taking an educated guess on Bill’s whereabouts, he heads downstairs.
–
Bill pulls the pan of popovers from the oven, placing them on the left-hand side of the stove and out of the way of the large pot simmering on the opposite burner. He inspects their crispy exterior and, satisfied with the pleasant golden-brown color, allows them a few moments to cool. He’s always taken pride in his cooking ability, skills he’s practiced and perfected throughout adulthood. But baking; that’s its own beast, and one he’s regretfully neglected.
Why, then, does he insist on making things harder for himself? The answer is obvious – for once, he has someone he wants to impress. And, since he knows popovers are the superior bread pairing for rabbit stew, he refused to settle for anything less. Bill only hopes they turned out as well inside as their exterior suggests.
“Need a sous chef?”
Even though Bill knew Frank was bound to head down at some point, he still manages to startle the shit out of him. Every. Damn. Time.
“Food’s almost done. You can s–” As he turns, his words catch in his throat.
Frank is leaning leisurely against the door frame, shirt hanging open to reveal his astonishingly toned torso. He lifts a hand to push his hair from his eyes, and his abs ripple.
Bill sucks in a breath, attempting to reel his thoughts back in.
He may have been successful too, had Frank not decided to stride towards him then. Bill can hear his heart thunder in his ears and, without meaning to, he backs up – a motion he bemoans immediately.
“Fuck!”
Bill jerks his hand away from the still-sweltering pan and shifts further from the stove altogether. Cradling his injured hand to his chest, he mentally curses his own carelessness.
“Shit, Bill, let me see.” Frank’s tone has lost its preceding playfulness in favor of concern. Of course, this shift just makes Bill feel more mortified, and he pulls away when Frank tries to touch him.
“I’m fine.”
–
“Okay.”
Frank lifts his hands palms-out and gives Bill some space.
In hindsight, the kitchen definitely isn’t the most favorable seduction location. He really should know better, given how many weird kitchen-related injuries he’s treated over the years.
Admittedly, he feels a bit guilty and considers removing himself from the kitchen entirely. However, watching Bill carry on, one-handed, without so much as checking the burn’s severity irritates him.
“Will you just let me take a look? Please? I’m a professional, for Christ’s sake!”
Bill only turns to look at him after that last bit, visibly flustered, “Professional what? Distraction?!”
“Oh, ha ha!” Guilt (and civility) forgotten, Frank snaps back at him, “A medical professional, thank you! And I’m just trying to help you!”
“Well, I don’t need medical attention!”
“How do you know when you haven’t even looked at the injury?!”
Finally, Bill seems to relent. “Fine.” He sighs in defeat and lifts his hand from his chest, surveying his palm.
Frank feels his own demeanor soften almost immediately. He makes his way over to the sink and turns it on, testing the water to make sure it’s cool, but not cold. When he turns around, he finds Bill already there, and this makes him smile in a bashful kind of way.
Sighing again, Bill thrusts his hand beneath the faucet, wrinkling his nose in slight discomfort.
“First aid kit?” Frank asks, gauging what little he can of the injury from beneath the flowing water.
“Bottom drawer to yer right.” Bill grumbles in response, eyes still fixed on the faucet.
Aha, so you are prepared for cooking-related injuries after all!
Wasting no time, Frank liberates the first aid kit from the bottom drawer and sets it on the countertop. He digs through until he finds what he’s looking for – a small tube of bacitracin, a gauze bandage roll, and medical tape.
–
Bill watches warily as Frank pats his hand dry and examines his palm. It makes him feel inane, letting someone else patch such an insignificant wound; one he definitely could have treated himself, or probably just left alone.
Still, he can’t deny that there’s a subtle charm to being fussed over like this. He’s embarrassed about all of it – for accepting the attention, even liking it. For savoring how softly Frank touches him as he bandages his hand, and for wondering if all his touches will be so tender.
“Told ya it’d only take a minute.” Frank releases Bill’s hand and smiles at him.
“I’m sorry.” Bill struggles to meet his eyes, but decides it’s a lesser evil than continuing to stare idly at his chest.
Frank cocks his head inquisitively, “For what?”
“Fer calling you a distraction.”
At this, Frank laughs, and Bill isn’t quite sure if he should feel relieved or offended.
“Oh, that’s okay. I am a distraction – but just as a hobby, not professionally.” Frank gives him a small wink. As seems almost customary in present company, Bill’s cheeks heat up in a deep blush.