Everything had happened in an baffling blend of blurred action and slow motion at once. You’d slung your coat over your shoulders as you’d swung open the door of your apartment building, eyes flickering up to the darkening skies to watch out for the predicted downpour. The door had closed behind you, and as you tilted your head down to begin to dig in your purse for your MetroCard, a hand clamped over your mouth, a sting pinched your neck, and your vision faded into black.
The chill that hung in the darkened warehouse had sent shivers through your spine as your wrists ached against the zip tie that constrained them, and the metal chair beneath you dug into your legs. Everything was muffled, as if someone had put cling film over your eyes and ears.
And then, there was a commotion. Dark figures moving around, flashes as guns were fired, the deafening crack of a gun being fired. Calloused hands gently cutting the zip ties and lifting you up, taking you outside and placing you in the back of the van.
Which leads to now.
Frank sits crouched on the floor, facing you on the couch. His hands are gently running a cotton pad of rubbing alcohol over your forehead, rubbing away the crimson traces of the trauma of the evening. The sting grounds you, as does his other hand that rests firmly on your thigh.
He thinks you don’t notice the tremor in his fingertips until you reach up and place a hand on his shoulder. “Hey. I’m okay.” You say, tugging one corner of your mouth up in a small comforting smile.
Frank doesn’t meet your eyes - instead, his dark eyes skate over your face, drinking in the watercolor blues and purples and reds that decorate your skin.
Your hand that rests on his shoulder moves up to his cheek, your opposite hand coming up to clutch his face between the two, and you drop your forehead to touch his.
“I’m okay.” You repeat your words, and he finally lets his eyes meet yours. He still has fading yellow bruises that mottle his nose and cheekbones, and you lift one hand to let your fingers trace them lightly as he sighs into your palm.
“Stay here tonight.” When Frank finally speaks, his voice is rough and it rumbles through you like the running motor of a car as he leans into your hand. “’S not safe for you to go back to your place.”
You nod against him, foreheads still pressed together, but remain silent. The only sound in the apartment is the dull clicking of a clock from the other room, and both of your breaths slowly beginning to fall into rhythm.
His fingers press into your thigh. “I’m serious. I know you want to go home, but-” Your hand pushes his face to look at you as you draw back slightly, enough to look him properly in the eyes.
“Frank.” Your voice is insistent. “That shitty apartment isn’t my home. You’re my home.”
He’s silent, dark eyes watching you and running over your face like he’s trying to memorize it. “I’m not-”
“You’ve always felt like home.” Your words cut through the air, silencing his oncoming denial, and you feel his muscles tense under you, ever-so-subtly, but enough for you to know you’ve gotten through to him.
“Don’t do that.” Frank sighs, drawing back and rising to his feet. You tilt your head slightly, watching him stand with a frown. “Don’t say that, when I’m the one that got you into this situation in the first place. This?” His hand makes a general gesture towards your bruised face. “It’s all because of me.”
You push yourself to a stand as well, batting Frank’s hand away from your arm when the sudden movement makes you wince. “Actually, it’s all because of the Irish mob. Unless you want to tell me that you’ve joined their gang.”
Your attempt at a joke falls flat when Frank’s brows draw together even more, and you sigh exasperatedly, allowing the dull burn at the deep intake of breath to pull you into reality.
“Maybe I should get Micro to find a safehouse for you.” Frank says, voice low, and you raise an eyebrow.
“Good luck keeping me there.” He opens his mouth to argue but you lean forwards and press your lips to his. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m safe here.”
“You’re not- if you were safe here, then tonight wouldn’t’a fucking happened.”
“When I’m with you, I’m safe. When I’m with you, I’m happy. Let me be happy, okay?” You negotiate, threading your arms around his torso and allowing your head to sag against his chest.
A moment passes. Rain begins to hit the windows of the apartment, and the ticking of the clock is drowned out by the soothing noise.
“Okay.” Frank says, and you feel the rumble of his voice through his chest as his arms come around to hold you close, and you close your eyes and listen to his steady heartbeat.