Sitting in the waiting room of his therapist's office, Frank watched Dean weave his way back with a styrofoam cup of black coffee. Pretending to find a three year old issue of National Geographic completely absorbing, he watched Dean sit opposite. The styrofoam cup lifted to his lips and he took a sip.
His nose scrunched, lips curled down, Dean stared into the cup as he tried figure out what nasty substance could disguise itself as coffee.
"Told you," Frank muttered from behind the magazine.
Turning to the side, Dean chunked the full cup into the wastebasket next to him.
"Wish I'd listened," he replied before scraping his tongue against his front teeth. Frank knew from experience it would not help.
Stunning best described Dean today. His outfit was simple, the black suit and a plain white starched shirt, no tie, the collar open to display his choker. Yet he seemed to radiate life, love and commitment. In Frank's eyes he was no less than stunning.
"Mister Warren?"
Jumping up, Frank waited a moment for Dean to follow before heading towards his therapist. Miss Taylor stood aside for both of them though her eyes reflected her curiosity.
"I'm Sue Taylor," she introduced herself at the doorway to the counseling room when it became obvious Dean accompanied Frank today.
"Dean. Nice to meet you," Dean replied, shaking her hand before entering.
"Is it Mister Dean?" she asked, taking the pen from her notebook to hold out while maintaining eye contact with Dean.
Accepting the pen, Frank tucked it safely away in his jacket pocket as he answered, "Mister Smith."
"No one calls me that," Dean protested with a chuckle. "Dean is fine."
"No, it's not," Frank insisted, pointing out where they should sit on the couch. "She can call you Mister Smith."
"Mister Smith was my father," Dean argued, his lips twitching downward as he sat. "Mom still refers to him as 'Mister Smith'. Do not make her call me that, Frank."
Momentarily torn between the nice politeness he had forged between Miss Taylor and himself and Dean's desire for informality, Frank stood staring down at his love's insistence on this issue. Which was stupid. Technically Dean was a 'Mister Smith', he should own it.
"Fra-a-ank," Dean growled under his breath while shooting a death-glare in Frank's direction.
"Then she's calling you Mister Dean," Frank insisted as he settled himself next to his love. "I'm not willing to compromise any more."
Fully expecting an eyeroll, Frank was pleasantly surprised when Dean nodded in acknowledgement.
"Does this mean I'm also allowed to call you Mister Frank?" Miss Taylor requested with a smile.
Chalk up one for the therapist. How could he say no with 'Mister Dean' seated beside him?
"Sure," Frank sighed, deeply disappointed.
An obnoxious chuckle sounded from beside him and Dean's shoulders shook with mirth while his lively green eyes sparkled. He knew how much this skewered Frank.
"I never did send those flowers to your ex," Frank recalled. "Will your receptionist give me her address? I want to sign the card from Mister Frank."
After Dean stared at him briefly, he did receive his eyeroll. "You would, wouldn't you? Considering how Ginny thinks you're just wonderful because you call her Miss Ginny, I think she'll give you the address." Dean rolled his eyes again.
"Are you two through tormenting each other?" Miss Taylor asked. "Or should I wait a little longer to ask how things have been going?"
"She is good," Dean observed with a nod of approval. "I see what John means now. Really sharp."
With a gentle elbow to the side as an admonishment for talking about the therapist as if she were not in the room, Frank sat up straighter to address her.
"It's been okay. No more anxiety attacks, thank God. John has been fantastic, no one can have a better best friend. I went back to work yesterday and everyone at work is being supportive, telling me to ease my way back in and not take on a heavy workload until I feel ready." He shrugged, hoping to end it there.
"First, may I ask why Dean, ah, Mister Dean is with you today?" she asked, wrapping her hands together in her lap.
"No," Frank replied. "Next question?"
From the corner of his eye Frank could see Dean massaging his forehead with his fingertips but he made no comment. It was undoubtedly a struggle.
"All right." She was momentarily taken aback. It was perhaps the first question Frank had flat-out refused to answer.
"From the sounds of it, the last two weeks have been good. Why did you say they were only okay?" She slid her hands under her thighs to sit on her fingers. Frank had noticed Miss Taylor had been developing coping strategies for not being able to twirl her pen during his sessions. Good for her.
"Because I figured out why Kelly," he admitted as shame rose its ugly head and he felt how unworthy he was to be sitting in the presence of-
"Stop it," Dean hissed while knocking a knee into his, interrupting his train of thought.
"But I'd like to hear it," Miss Taylor insisted.
"Sorry, I wasn't telling him to stop talking," Dean explained. "I was telling him to stop being so hard on himself. He's pretty ashamed of the whole rat-bastard part of his life."
"We can discuss how he's dealing with it in a minute," Miss Taylor replied, her attention back on him. "Frank? You were saying?"
Frank? Just Frank? Man, give the woman an inch and she takes a mile.
"Don't you mean Mister Frank?" Dean sounded as aggravated as Frank felt.
"Didn't I say Mister Frank?" she asked meekly.
"Not what I heard," Frank replied.
"Me either." There was a distinct growl in Dean's voice.
"My apologies, it was not on purpose. Mister Frank, could you please tell me what you remembered about Kelly? Please?" A hopeful smile appeared, the kind given by small children who have broken a window and seen their short lives flash before their eyes when Dad comes racing into the room. "Mister Frank?"
A short uncomfortable silence followed during which they both stared at the therapist. Then Dean turned to regard Frank. "I'm good. How about you, Baby?"
"I guess," Frank admitted grudgingly as he wondered how much further she would continue to push his boundaries.
"Go on, tell her." Dean's hand slid on to his thigh. "You've been avoiding it long enough." The hand gave a comforting squeeze. "Still here. Not going anywhere."
With his love's personal assurance, Frank plunged into the darkest pit of his life. In short, he spilled his guts. He told her all of it, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Dean's hand remained firm on his leg until Frank reached down to hold it.
By the time he finished a massive weight had lifted from his shoulders. Though he was sitting on the sofa clutching Dean's hand Frank felt if he let go he could float into the air.
"Very good, Mister Frank." A real smile appeared on the therapist. "This is excellent work. And you remembered all of this since your last visit?"
"Since last night," he admitted. "Dean suggested I'd been asking the wrong question. Instead of why, he asked what Kelly had been good for. It all popped into my head when he asked."
"Wow," she breathed. "All of it? So quickly? With this in mind, maybe we should try to slow down a little. Focus on smaller things. It seems the bigger pieces are waiting to fall into place."
"What kind of smaller things?" Dean asked. It was the first time he had spoken since Frank started spilling his guts. "Because there's one I've been wanting to ask about but the timing never seems right."
Miss Taylor checked her watch. "We still have fifteen minutes. Go ahead and ask."
Expecting questions about his ugly wall or the dead plants on his balcony, Frank was floored when he heard: "Have you been collecting tattoo price sheets?"
"You found my file?" Frank asked, the words out of his mouth before he could process the disapproval in Dean's eyes. "Where was it?"
"Where you hid it," Dean replied, a hurt note in his voice. "You're price shopping for tattoos?"
"It's not what you think," Frank defended himself. "I don't want an eagle on my chest or barbed wire around my arm. It's for identification."
"Tattoos are often used for identification," Miss Taylor added, he hoped she was on his side. "What kind of tattoo do you have in mind, Mister Frank?"
She adapted quick to using his first name, he noticed.
"My name and maybe my social, I hadn't decided," Frank told them. Using his free hand he patted his hip. "About here, out of sight."
"Crap," Dean sighed, eyes closing, going still as if Frank had said something horrible and he needed time to digest it before reacting.
"I don't think I know of anyone who wanted a tattoo strictly for identification before," Miss Taylor replied, taking his plan in stride. At least she did not seem to think it too strange. "What an interesting solution. But why haven't you discussed it with Dean? Why were you hiding it?"
Why, why, why. This lady only knew one question and it was always the one for which there was no answer.
"You're worried about the authorities not being able to identify your body?" Dean demanded, his tone close to ticked off and yet in anguish. It sounded almost as bad as the human robot but at least there was emotion, Frank would take pain and anguish over nothing. Dean's eyes opened to zero in on Frank. Miss Taylor did not appear to register on Dean's radar, this was between them.
"Honestly?" Dean prodded.
"Um..." Dryness spread through his mouth leaving it feeling dusty. Trying to wet his mouth was useless. "Yeah?"
Loving green eyes turned too shiny as Dean breathed, "Aw, Baby."
"You're going to throw away two months of research, aren't you?" Frank guessed.
"I should," Dean sighed, "but I won't. Just promise you won't do it without me, okay? Maybe I'll do it too."
"Great," Frank exclaimed. "Then if your body ever washes ashore with too much water damage to identify your face, they'll still know who you are."
"Why-"
"Don't," Dean interrupted Miss Taylor, his eyes fixed on Frank. "Don't ask why. His brain shuts down when you use the word why."
"John?" Frank guessed.
"It's one reason I have him on my speed dial," Dean confessed.
"See how wonderful my family is?" Frank bragged to Miss Taylor, ripping his hands from Dean's grip so he could throw his arms around those broad shoulders.
"I certainly do." The therapist smiled at them. "Mister Frank, may I have my pen? I'd like to make some notes on where we should pick up next time, right after you make your promise. Dean's request seems quite reasonable."
"Mister Dean's request," Frank reminded her. Mile-taker, he thought viciously.
"I won't do it without talking to you first," Frank promised, feeling quite secure he could keep this one.
"No, I want you to say you won't do it without me," Dean insisted. "If you go to one of those place, I want to go with you. Even if you're still price shopping."
"Damn it," Frank muttered, glaring at his love for seeing through his ploy. With his original promise even if Dean tried to talk him out of it, as long he as talked to Dean first he could go have the tattoo done. With this new twist he would only be able to go if Dean went too.
"If it's what you really, really want," Dean added, "I won't stop you. But I will be there. I hate the idea of you going to one of those places alone."
"Why?" Frank asked, insulted. "There are plenty of women with tattoos, I'm sure lots of them go alone."
"I've met those women, they could kick your ass." Dean's steady gaze refused to budge on this issue. "If someone is going to stick a needle into your skin, he is going to damn well know if you get an infection your boyfriend will come back and knock the crap out of him."
"Fiancé," Frank corrected.
With a grin Dean agreed, "Fiancé."
"Then I promise not to go tattoo shopping without you."
Frank shrugged at his therapist. "Sometimes it's tough being loved this much." He slipped her pen from his pocket to return to her.
"It's a wonderful problem to have." Miss Taylor's smile was warm and friendly. "It's been a pleasure meeting you, Mister Dean. Will I be seeing you again?"
"Next appointment," Dean informed her, "and if I can't make it, John will come."
"We've met, he's always welcome," she assured them as she showed them the way out.
#
The fifth time Dean did not answer his call Frank started to worry. By the tenth time he tried not to panic. However images of Dean bleeding out on the sidewalk after a mugging gone bad kept forcing their way into his head. When Frank managed to shove it out of sight a fresh image of Dean mowed down by a sedan replaced it. No wonder he needed therapy. Now he was picking up Dean's neuroses in addition to his own. Great. This was just fantastic. Exactly what he needed.
With trembling fingers he pulled his cell from his gym bag. Picking Missus Smith's number from his phone list was not difficult since there were only four names listed: Dean, Missus Smith, Shelly and John.
"Frank dear?" she asked in warm motherly tones which instantly pushed his worries to the background.
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, feeling himself smile over hearing her voice.
"And you're using your phone. Excellent work, dear."
"Thanks. I was kind of wondering if you'd talked to Dean today?" It would be better to ease toward his question, Frank did not want to worry her unnecessarily.
"No, I haven't. And I was expecting to. Wasn't he supposed to go to your therapy appointment this morning?"
"He did," Frank confirmed. "I thought it was a pretty good one, actually. When we left I felt like a ton had been lifted off my shoulders."
"Very good, Frank dear. Sounds like real progress. Now I feel peeved Dean hasn't called to brag about it."
"Please don't fuss at him for it, Mom. It wasn't exactly the kind of thing you discuss with your mother. I felt bad he had to hear all of it," Frank explained.
"If it's the way you feel, dear," she said and he heard an odd catch in her voice.
"Are you okay?" Frank hoped he would not need to worry about both of them tonight. Dean would have to come first, being the one missing, and there was no telling how long it would be before he could go check on her in person.
"I'm perfect." A warm chuckle sounded in his ear. "Frank, you are truly a dear. Do you have any idea how much of a dear you are?"
"Uh..." Now how the heck was he supposed to answer without sounding like an arrogant jackass?
"You are," she repeated and he could hear her smile. "You'd better go or else you'll be late for the gym and you know how Dean worries."
"Yes, ma'am," he replied with the distinct feeling once again he had missed an item of paramount importance. "Do you want to have dinner with us one night this week? I haven't seen you in a few days."
"I'd love to, dear. Just let me know when and I'll wait for you two to pick me up," she offered.
"Great. If you don't hear from me before, call me tomorrow morning and we can pick a place on my diet," Frank decided. "But I need to go now."
"Yes, you don't want to be late for the gym," she reminded him again.
"Right," Frank agreed. If she knew the real reason for his call she would probably insist on calling out the bloodhounds. He made his goodbyes, then he tried Dean's number again. Again it rolled to voicemail.
Rooting through his wallet he found the business card of Dean's boss, the classy Elizabeth. She might have overheard Dean say something. They had to be fairly close if she was his wingman at The Club.
"Why Mister Frank, you were the last person I expected to call this evening. What can I do for you?" What an amazingly classy lady. She would fit perfectly into a Hepburn movie.
"I was wondering if you knew where Dean was? He usually answers his phone if it's me, even when he's showing a house. I've been trying for half an hour and I'm kind of concerned." Frank stuffed his wallet back into his gym bag. He was already dressed for his workout tonight.
"His last appointment canceled and he left early. I believe he mentioned going to the gym because you have another workout tonight. You haven't heard from him?"
"No, but if he's at the gym that would explain it. He leaves his cell in the locker. I'll go on over to see if he's there," Frank replied, a rush of relief accompanying her explanation.
"If Dean isn't there, please call me," she insisted. "He's more than just an employee, I do consider him a good friend. Could you call me even if he is there so I won't worry?" He always liked her. Honest.
"It'll take me about fifteen or twenty minutes to get to the gym from here," Frank replied. "I'll call you after I take a look around for Dean, either way."
"If he's not there I'll drive over. We'll look for him together," she offered.
"Thanks, Miss Elizabeth. You have no idea how much I appreciate your offer." His heart beat easier from her generosity.
"Any time, Mister Frank. And I mean it. I'm waiting for your call."
"I'm headed for the gym. Talk to you in a few." Frank disconnected the call before heading out to street level.
It was closer to twenty minutes before he arrived at the gym, forty full minutes late for his scheduled workout tonight. If Dean had a clock handy he should be entering pool-of-blood mode. Assuming Dean himself was not lying in a pool of blood. Instead of heading straight for the locker room to put away his bag, Frank searched through the gym in his quest to find Dean. In the first two rooms there were lots of sweaty guys with bulging muscles but no Dean.
He headed into the boxing area. From the other side of the door he could hear the sounds of someone whaling on one of those heavy bags boxers used for practice. Slipping through the door, Frank hoped to check out the room without being noticed right away.
In the far corner three heavy bags hung. Two were in use. An intimately familiar back stood before the second bag. Frank slid his cell out of his gym bag to give Elizabeth a quick call to inform her she was right, Dean was here, there was no need for her to worry. He wished he could say the same for himself. As he put it away a burly man with curly black hair approached. Without being drenched in sweat Dean's best friend was difficult to recognize at first.
"Hey, Frank." Pat's demeanor was stiff and wary, his tone guarded. "Any idea what's wrong with him? Did you two have a big fight earlier?"
"What do you mean?" Frank demanded. It required effort to keep his voice down.
With a pointed glance at Dean giving the large bag some nasty blows, Pat said, "He only acts like this when there's a serious problem. Last time was the day his mother was diagnosed with cataracts. He was convinced she'd go completely blind. So what happened?"
Kelly again. No. No, he could not blame this one on Kelly, this one was all Frank's fault. He never had answered Dean's question about if he still wanted to die. At the time he had deliberately sidestepped it, believing without knowing the big 'why' behind wanting to die he could not know for sure if he still wanted to or not. Somehow his idiotic logic had sounded more reasonable in his head last night. No wonder Dean pounded the bag like a maniac. How would he feel in Dean's place?
"I think I know what it is," Frank replied. "Let me talk to him."
Pat moved in his way. "Frank, it takes a lot to work Dean up to this point. I doubt you understand how much. So whatever you were fighting about-"
"We didn't have a fight," Frank sighed. He needed to get to know Pat better and vice versa. If Pat knew him better there would be no need for this.
"Honest, if you'll let me by, I'll make this right," Frank promised. "I know you don't know me very well yet, and you and I need to work on it, but I'm asking you to trust me. I can fix this. Please let me go fix this."
Pat leaned in to speak directly into Frank's ear. "He wouldn't tell me what's eating him. It's like he's afraid to talk about it. You're sure you know?"
Yep, it was all about Frank's death-wish. Strangely, standing here with Pat whispering in his ear, both of them concerned about the man beating the stuffing out of a boxing bag in the corner, not only did he know the answer to Pat's question but Dean's as well.
"Pretty sure," he said into Pat's ear. "Are you going to let me try?"
"Hurry up." Moving out of the way, Pat gave him a push in the right direction.
Choosing not to run or act worried, though Dean's disappearing act had given him a nice scare, Frank tried to act nonchalant as he sauntered up to the punching bag. Standing on the side he went unnoticed, Dean's focus on beating the bag was so intent. When he moved around to stand directly behind the bag he managed to catch Dean's eye.
Pulling his last punch, Dean grabbed the swinging bag to stare at Frank. His brow furrowed and he blinked several times as if he were seeing a mirage.
"You're early?" he demanded, wonder and disbelief in his voice, maybe even some anger.
"Nope. I'm late." Frank pointed out the clock. "About forty minutes."
"Huh?" Still hanging on to the bag, Dean swung around to glare at the clock. "That can't be the right time."
"Happens to me all the time," Frank could not resist adding, "and everyone is usually mad at me for it."
Turning back around Dean frowned. "You know I don't care as long as I know where you are."
"Which is why I call and let you know where I'm going," Frank stated, "and why I'm carrying one of those demonic cell phones again. Have I been good about it?"
"Yeah," Dean said warily. "Very good, actually."
"So I haven't unnecessarily worried you lately?" Frank pressed.
"No?" Dean fidgeted, a schoolboy in trouble with his favorite teacher.
"Do you mean you took off early from work for the gym without bothering to call and tell me, started pounding on this bag until you lost all track of time, for grins? Because you felt like it? According to Pat, the last time you worked a bag like this was when you thought your mom was going blind."
After staring at him for a long and thoroughly uncomfortable moment, Dean motioned down with one wrapped hand. "You should put your bag in the locker room."
Snap. The bag landed on the concrete floor with an innocuous plop. Crossing his arms over his chest Frank glared at his love. He had no intention of moving, not one step, until they resolved this mess.
"Not here," Dean hissed with a surreptitious glance at the man pounding the next bag to his left. "Later."
"You disappeared on me." Frank's voice rose until it cut through the rhythmic thuds from powerful blows a few feet away. "We are settling this here. Now."
Pink flushed across Dean's sweaty face and the look of a trapped animal appeared in his eyes.
"Oh, hey," the other boxer paused in his battle with the heavy bag. "Dean, is this him? What's his name again? Mister Frank?"
"That's me," Frank confirmed, walking up to offer his hand.
This boxer had also been working the bag without gloves, his hands partially wrapped. He offered Frank a sweaty and chalky handshake. "Tim."
"Pleased to meet you, Tim," Frank replied, forcing a smile. "Would you mind taking a ten minute break? So I can talk to Dean? There are probably fewer people in here than the locker room."
"Might not be in ten minutes," Tim warned, "the after work crowd is starting to show. But no, I don't mind a break. I ought to go check out the free weights. I figured something was wrong, the way Dean's been punishing the bag."
With a gruff "take it easy" to Dean, Tim left with Pat trailing behind him. The room was empty.
"We're alone," Frank stated, turning his glare back where it belonged, on Dean. "Spill it."
"Nothing's wrong," Dean insisted without meeting Frank's eyes, his foot scuffing the floor.
"Everything is fine?" Frank wanted to shake the truth out of him. "Is that the story you want to stick with?"
"Yep." When Dean met his gaze Frank could see the lie. "I can put your gym bag up, I need to change for your workout anyway."
Swooping down, Dean snatched his bag and walked halfway across the room before Frank could react. This was the first time Dean had outright lied to him. To his face. Frank had no idea what to do. Call him on it? Demand an explanation? Then again considering how public the gym was and Dean's aversion to 'busybodies' this was probably the last place he would open up. Frank had been dreaming to try and start any serious discussion here. Now what?
He might understand the situation but it did not mean he had to like it. As a matter of fact, Frank had not felt this angry in years. Steam rose from his ears and his blood boiled. What could he do? Unless he took off, pretty much the way Dean tended to, he was stuck here until after tonight's workout. Only after they left the gym would it be possible to force Dean to open up.
Frank could blurt out he gave up on his death-wish, it might even work, but he had the nagging feeling it would not go over well in public. Besides, what was Dean doing hiding stuff from him? He told Dean freaking everything and in return Dean bottled up his emotions and ran away. Until Frank chased his ass down. Too bad there no balcony existed here, Dean would have been easier to find.
People filtered into the room to work on various equipment. Tim had been right about the after work crowd. During Frank's internal freak-out the three heavy bags had been taken by new arrivals. He hoped Tim had better luck with the free weights.
A waving arm caught his attention. Frank turned slowly toward it. Dean, freshly showered by the look of him, wore another set of workout clothes. He smiled and waved again, as if everything were perfectly fine and Frank's mood had vanished as quickly as Dean's apparently had. Ha. As if.
No, he would not play nice and pretend everything was sweetness and light. Absolutely not. He was madder than hell, why lie about it? Feeling tight and defensive, Frank stood his ground and made Dean come to him.
"Ready?" Dean asked cheerily.
"For?" Frank demanded.
"Stretching first, of course. Then either walk the track or cycling. Or both." With another forced smile Dean shrugged. "Whatever you want."
"Whatever you have planned," Frank replied, challenging Dean.
"We should go to the mats for stretching," Dean replied, pretending to be oblivious to Frank's mood.
At the mats they started the exact same stretching routine from yesterday. Frank remembered most of it though he knew he was not doing it all exactly right.
"Straighten your leg," Dean chided with a nod at the offending limb.
Frank straightened it.
"No, all the way," Dean fussed, breaking from his own stretch to reach over with one hand to straighten Frank's leg.
While the weight and the warm flesh felt right against his skin Frank did not feel ready to play nice. Freezing in place, he glared at the hand on his shin until it retreated. Then Frank resumed his stretches. What he should do was walk out of here, take Dean someplace private and hash this business out. However doing so meant breaking his promise to do whatever exercise Dean wanted of him. Like last night, after the stretches Frank felt ready to call it day. However they had not started the real workout yet.
"Well?" Dean asked, holding out a hand to help him up. "Have you decided if you want to walk or cycle?"
Not accepting the offered hand, Frank pushed himself up to his feet. With an effort he managed not to pant. When had he allowed himself to become so out of shape? He used to be in pretty fair shape, no unsightly bulges, able to walk or run wherever and whenever he wanted. This must be what people meant by 'getting old'.
"I said, whatever you have planned," Frank repeated, not bothering to use a syrupy voice.
"Cycling," Dean announced, the practiced client smile wavering. "Let's see if there are any machines open."
Following, Frank tried to come to grips with the fact Dean was not coming around. By now they should have found a quiet corner to talk, not gone straight to exercise. This was absurd.
"Hop up here." Dean patted the seat of an empty cycling machine. He explained the different settings but Frank did not pay attention. Honestly he did not care. Whatever Dean set it on he would use. Period. No matter what. He would make good on his promise.
"How's this?" Dean asked once he started pumping the pedals. The stupid handlebars moved too. Real bicycles did not behave this way. He rode a possessed bike unable to go anywhere except the hell of exercise for exercise's sake.
"Frank? I asked how is this setting?"
"Whatever you think," he repeated, willing himself not to glare. Instead Frank focused on the digital readout. He gave the different settings his own names beginning with 'Cub Scout' and working up to 'He-Man Woman Hater'. At the moment he rated Cub Scout which proved how out of shape he had allowed himself to become.
Funneling his anger over Dean's stupid stunt this afternoon, and he had a better idea of how Dean felt the day he lit out to check on Missus Smith, Frank pounded the cycling machine. The next time he glanced down the setting had changed to 'Awkward Teen.' Better.
A set of hands waved at him. Slowing, Frank wondered what he had done wrong now.
"Good," Dean said, hands continuing to wave him to a stop. "You're good. Your ten minutes are up. Want to walk or hit the showers?"
"It depends," Frank replied, feeling far more in control than he had before attempting to ride the stationary cycle to Canada, "which one means we get to talk?"
With a deep sigh Dean breathed, "Showers."
"Done." Frank hopped off the cycle. Last night they had also done some cool down stretches. No way would he cool down in this mood. He doubted he could if he tried.
Not bothering to check for Dean behind him, Frank made for the locker rooms. His shirt stuck wetly to his back and chest and he felt grimy. Maybe he should shower. Although it meant a delay to their fight, Frank would not give Dean the 'clean' upper hand.
Hardly noticing anyone around him, Frank grabbed a quick shower. Water splash. Rub soap everywhere. Rinse. Done. Hair could wait for home. Drying himself as he stepped back into the dressing area, he did notice Dean standing by one of the lockers. It must be where Dean stored his bag. Dean opened it for him then stood aside.
"Thanks," he muttered, unable not to express the minimum of politeness. Dean structured and oversaw his workouts because Frank had asked. The least he could do, even bull angry, was say thanks.
"I mean thanks for the workout," Frank clarified while yanking on clean shorts.
"Happy to," Dean replied from his post against the wall. It even sounded sincere.
Refusing to allow his eyes to make any statements without checking in with his brain, Frank kept his gaze down. He pulled on a t-shirt before stuffing his dirty clothes into the bag. The wet towel went into the large hamper by the wall overflowing with wet gym towels.
"Ready?" Frank demanded, clutching his bag in his right hand while turning to face Dean head-on.
"No," Dean sighed, "but we should go."
Damn right we should, Frank thought, wishing for a way to throw his thoughts into Dean's brain. If there were then maybe he and Dean would have been back on the same page by now.
Again Frank led the way out of the gym, not once bothering to check if Dean followed. If not then their fight would be much worse later when he found his secretive fiancé again. However Frank wondered where they should go. Home? Home did not feel like a place to go to fight, it was a place to be safe from fights. The park? Sure, hadn't Dean once referred to the park as a place to avoid the busybodies? It sounded perfect.
Outside the gym he turned left as usual. However at the first intersection instead of going straight he made another left. Don't look, he ordered himself, don't look. Even if Dean did not follow Frank could use a few minutes in the park to clear his head. By the next intersection Dean had not caught up to walk with him. Frank continued on his trek. Halfway up the next block he heard quick steps and then Dean loomed in his peripheral on the left.
"We're not going home?" Dean asked, his voice small.
"The park." Frank tried walking faster but Dean kept pace.
"Why?"
"Sshh!" Frank made a production of peering around them at all the people who were not there and all the people not paying attention to them. "Busybodies."
"Yeah, okay, I should've called," Dean started.
"Uh-uh." Frank waved him off. "Oh, no. We're talking when I'm ready and I'm not ready yet." He pointed ahead. "After I find a nice spot in the park, without any invisible busybodies, then you can talk. Until then, shut up or go home."
Snapping his eyes forward Frank did not watch Dean's reaction, refused to judge how his little tirade went over, and honestly did not care a whole lot at this point if Dean would still be beside him when he made it inside the park. He could use some time to himself, maybe then he could calm down. The dizziness meant his blood pressure had blasted into the stratosphere. Frank decided not to check it tonight for his blood pressure diary, it would be an unfair reading.
Surging ahead, Frank nearly ran into the park seeking solitude and peace. The scent of freshly mowed grass filled his nostrils while a thin crescent moon sliced through the inky blackness above. Only a few stars were able to battle the city lights to shine in the night sky. Several couples strolled on the many footpaths. Frank did not worry about them, they had their own lives to live. At first he did not know what he wanted, what he was searching for. Then his gaze hit a faded and peeling park bench.
It was the same park bench. The day Fate drew them together was right here and it was on this very same bench where he had given Dean a key. As he headed for it Frank felt a sense of relief and accomplishment over finding it. After sitting on the blistered wood slats, Frank leaned back and dropped his gym bag by his feet. Much better. Closing his eyes he tried to drift back to the day Dean had found him standing not far from here.
Struggling, Frank wanted to find the sense of calm he usually felt when he thought of their day in the park. Unfortunately only jumpy nerves remained.
A squeak of wood and the rustle of fabric beside him warned he was not alone. Ignoring his company, Frank pressed his palms against his eyes as he breathed deeply and attempted to force his racing heart to settle. The blood pulsed in his ears.
"Now?" Dean's voice was loud in the still air.
Shaking his head Frank focused on his breathing, on the pounding of his heart. Soon both settled into normal rhythms and the earth felt steady again under his feet. The dizziness passed. Lowering his hands Frank stared straight ahead.
"Now," he said quietly, having decided maybe he could handle what Dean would say.
"I'm sorry I didn't call."
Frank waited however nothing else came from his left. "And?" he prompted.
"I should've called." From the sound of it, Dean believed this was the heart of the issue.
"You do know I'm angry?" Frank asked, still not daring to make eye contact. "I was so mad at the gym I could barely see straight."
"Sorry I didn't call," Dean repeated. "I swear, it won't happen again."
This was not working. Shifting on the bench, Frank turned to sit sideways so he could see Dean's face. Poor Dean appeared bewildered, his eyes desperately searching Frank for forgiveness while his shoulders hunched over in dejection.
"Why were you beating the heavy bag like your mother was going blind?" Frank demanded. "And don't give me some stupid answer because I used the word why either, I'm too mad to figure out another way to ask."
With a pathetic shrug Dean's gaze dropped to the ground.
"Don't," Frank hissed, his hands trembling as the sense of being completely out of control returned. "Don't you dare shut me out again."
A blink. Dean's eyes were back on him, brow deeply furrowed, mouth twisted into a strange grimace. "What?"
"You're shutting me out," Frank accused, the tremble in his hands turning into a full blown case of the shakes. He grabbed his own knees in an effort to control it. "I tell you everything. Everything. Stuff I wouldn't tell my own mother. One stupid thing bothers you and you shut down? What the hell kind of relationship is this?"
"You didn't tell me about your tattoo plans," Dean accused, chin up in defiance, eyes flashing in the low lighting.
"We were still dating!" Frank exploded. "I haven't looked at my tatt file in a month! And then it disappeared before I could figure out how to bring it up!"
The shakes traveled up from his hands to torment aching muscles in his arms and shoulders.
Dean's chin dipped, the wind in his sails of defiance stolen. "I don't want to talk about it."
"No kidding," Frank snapped, his anger no longer under even tenuous control. "Just admit it bothers you I used to have a death-wish so I can tell you the rest and we can move on."
"You knew?" The sweet voice drifted between them on a gentle breeze.
"Of course I knew," Frank confirmed. "What else could it be? Unless something was wrong with your mom, but she sounded fine when I called her."
Gaze leaping to lock on to Frank, Dean stared wide-eyed. "You called my mom?"
"You disappeared. Of course I called your mom," Frank replied, anger seeping into his tone. "I also called your boss. I need Pat's number so next time I can call him first and not worry anybody else."
"You weren't supposed to notice," Dean muttered. He sighed. "I'd planned to be at our meeting place early to walk you to the gym."
"So you're planning out your lies?" Frank demanded, his shakes spreading down his back and up into his voice.
"I didn't want to worry you." Dean sounded far too calm. Judging by how Frank felt they should have moved into screaming and shouting by now. One hand hovered above Frank's knee, over which was clamped a trembling hand. Slowly it lowered until hard flesh pressed against his skin.
"You're shaking. What the hell happened?" Alarm rang through Dean's words and he sat up straighter, more alert.
"I'm pissed," Frank grated out through gritted teeth.
Dean's other hand flashed out to grab him by the shoulder. "Baby, you're shaking all over." Both hands felt up and down Frank's arms while Dean entered panic mode. "Are you all right? Was the workout too much? Are you having chest pains?"
"I. Am. Pissed. Off."
It required every ounce of willpower he retained not to shake himself like a wet dog and dislodge those loving hands. Frank knew he had a good thing with Dean, the best relationship he had ever experienced. His goal was to enjoy a permanent relationship with this man, but not one with lies.
In Dean's eyes he could see the moment the level of his anger registered. The next moment the searching hands flew off to hover inches away and Dean's silver wave undulated in the dim light as he swallowed. The worry of a dedicated lover vanished and the in trouble schoolboy had returned.
"Have you ever been this mad at a waiter?" Dean broke the strained silence first. Frank shook his head.
"What about the nurses in the hospital? Were you this mad at the one you thought was flirting with me?"
"She was flirting," Frank insisted as he considered the question. "Yeah. Close. But I'm angrier right now."
Both of Dean's eyes closed, his hands remaining in the air barely an inch from touching Frank. He had waited this long, Frank could wait another minute for Dean to pull his shit together.
"What do you need to hear?" Resignation. Acceptance. Busted.
"What's bothering you?" Frank enunciated each word, reminding himself of how John sounded when his best friend hit a similar tolerance limit.
Dark green peered deeply into his eyes. "Can I touch you? I'm not sure I can say it out loud if I can't feel you're right here."
Permission was given with an abrupt nod. Dean's hands returned to his shoulders, gently kneading his muscles as his love spoke.
"I didn't know. All those months I spent working on you at The Club and not once did I suspect you had..." He swallowed hard again. "I mean, I never thought you might... You know."
"Say it."
Shaking his head, Dean protested, "I can't Frank. Please don't make me."
"What else?" he demanded, his fury temporarily on pause.
"I could tell the rat-bastard was a scumbag and I knew you deserved better. But I figured there was plenty of time to work on you. You know, one step at a time, be patient. God, if I'd known there was a chance you wouldn't be back..."
"You blame yourself for my death-wish?" This went beyond stupid. Frank was so astounded he forgot to be angry. "You think it's your fault?"
"More like, for you being beat up for the first five months I knew you. Because I could've stopped it. I bet I could break his jaw with one punch. I should've challenged him, called him on it the time I saw you flinch-"
"Wait, wait, wait," Frank protested, holding up both hands. "Is this the real reason you get so pissed off whenever you think someone should've noticed what a rat-bastard Kelly is? Because you think you should've noticed?"
"I did notice." A severe cringe drew Dean back half a foot as if he expected Frank to punch him in the face.
"So what?" Frank asked. "So you noticed. And? Do you think you could've done any more than what you did?"
"I didn't do anything," Dean snapped. "It was happening right under my nose and I told myself I was imagining things, it couldn't be that bad, I shouldn't jump to conclusions-"
"You were my friend." A familiar craving rose up: touch. Reaching up, Frank wrapped his hand over Dean's bicep.
"At least once a week, in a world where I had convinced myself no one cared and I had no friends, there was this gorgeous guy who was always happy to see me. For a few hours every week I forgot I was all alone while he talked to me, just me." Anger a distant memory, Frank dove into those bottomless green pools. "You saved me."
"But John-" Dean started to protest.
"Wasn't doing crap chipping away at the wall I put around him," Frank interrupted. "You made it possible for John to break through. It's all been you. And if you had pushed harder at The Club I would've stopped going. You did it all exactly right, which is why we're here. Together."
"So you don't feel..." A loving green gaze begged for the answer Frank had only recently discovered. Strong hands held on his shoulders as if he might slip away.
"No death-wish," he promised. "Not since the day we met in the park." Frank gave the bulging muscle in his hand an affectionate squeeze. "No way would I try to duck out on this."
Like a switch flipping off Dean's entire posture relaxed and his real smile, Frank's smile, made its first appearance today. Both hands kneaded in across his shoulders, Dean's strong fingers working their way up the back of his neck as those green eyes shined at him.
"I needed to hear it," Dean breathed.
"I know." Still hanging on to one of Dean's arms, Frank had to add, "You would've heard it earlier if you had talked to me."
"I tried last night..." Dean cut himself off, as if he had said the wrong thing.
"You did." Frowning, Frank had no idea what to do about this. "I guess I was being an ass."
A deep chuckle rumbled and the hands holding him shook with it. "Maybe we both were. Oh, Baby, what would I do without you?"
"You keep saying those kinds of things," Frank replied warily. "Can't you ever say, Life was so boring before I met you? Or oh, Baby, you make Life so interesting?"
"God, I love you."
There was no laughter, no teasing tone, nothing but ultra-serious. Commitment. What Frank had yearned for since meeting this man. "And you're going to marry me."
The chuckle returned though Dean's eyes never wavered from his. "Yes, you terrier, yes. I'll marry you, we'll have kids and live in a house with a white picket fence next to your best friends. Yes, yes, yes."
"Isn't this better than sitting out on the balcony alone? Or beating up a poor defenseless boxing bag?" Frank teased.
"How much did I worry you?" he asked, his smile fading.
"I called everyone who I thought might know where you were," Frank replied. "I imagined you lying in a pool of blood somewhere. You know, I have enough hangups of my own without adopting yours, too."
"It won't happen again."
With a shake of his head, Frank decided he did not buy it. "You might if you think it's bad enough. I want Pat's number. I also want him to hang out with us more. I'm sure he's sorely lacking in his movie education."
"He only likes boxing movies."
Frank groaned to Dean's delighted chuckles.
"Pat also wants to help with your boxing education," Dean added.
"I'd appreciate his help. Let's set up a regular Pat night. Once or twice a month? Either you set it up or give me his number and I'll talk him into it."
"It'd serve him right," Dean replied, his gaze softening. "He doesn't believe me when I tell him how you boss waiters around."
"I don't boss them around," Frank defended himself, "I just expect them to know how to do their jobs. And be polite about it."
"Yes, Baby." Dean shifted closer, the tips of their noses nearly brushing. "People should be polite to my Frank."
"That's what I want," Frank decided. Dean nodded as if he meant it literally for the whole world. "On the necklace you keep threatening to buy me. My Frank. Or Dean's Baby. Whichever one sounds more gay."
Dean's next laugh pierced the night, ringing through their corner of the park. "I'll ask around. I'm sure Joe would have an opinion."
"Let's go home," Frank suggested.
"Ready when you are."
The loss of touch when Dean stood was jarring and his emotions, not yet recovered from the evening's rollercoaster, reeled. Then a hand appeared in front of him. Grasping it and allowing Dean to pull him to his feet, Frank reestablished their connection.
"I won't duck out on you again," Dean promised as they headed out of the park side by side. "I didn't know you could be that mad. At me."
"It wasn't because you disappeared on me. Again." Frank set their pace at a brisk walk. Though every muscle in his body ached it was a good ache, the kind which came from accomplishment instead of sorrow. "It was because you wouldn't talk to me about it."
"I guarantee I won't try to delay talking to you again." Dean huffed and shook his head. "Man, the longer I put it off the angrier you were. I honestly thought after a good workout you'd calm down. I won't make the same mistake twice."
"I would appreciate it," Frank replied, his relief palatable after seeing red for most of the evening. "Believe me, I understand irrational reactions. Those are fine. But talk to me about it when I catch up with you. And I won't try to make you do it in the middle of the gym again, I can't believe I was stupid enough to actually try. We'll just have to leave for a while."
"Deal." Dean's bag shifted into his far hand. The hand between them was free and he bumped it against Frank's hip. Frank entwined his fingers with Dean's for their walk home.