Prompt 94: "Did they hurt you?"
Warnings: blood, mentions of violence, bruises, mention of Nazis
Word count: 1 133 (not really a drabble anymore. Oops.)
A/N: For the drabble challenge over on tumblr. If you're interested: you can find my tumblr over my profile; just sent me a number (or more numbers) and a name!
Being friends with Frank was always an adventure, especially because he never did what you would have predicted. And even when you thought you knew by now what would happen, he always found new ways to surprise you; and not always good ways, at that.
This was your first thought when you picked up the duplex system in the middle of the night, and heard Frank's distorted voice through the speaker. Sometimes you wondered if you were masochistic for being in love with someone who always managed to get in trouble the way he did.
But these thoughts had to wait until later, because seconds after you had pressed the buzzer, and opened the door to your flat, you heard Frank stumble into the stairwell. It took him a couple of seconds to appear on the flight of stairs that lead up to your flat, and your heart sank as you saw the state he was in. He limped and clung to the banisters as he climbed up to your door, a smile on his face, which could not hide that he was in pain.
"What happened," you gasped, immediately pulling the man into your flat, and walking him to the sofa where you pressed him down into the cushions.
"Met some of these right wing Nazi bastards on the way home," he mumbled out from between his teeth.
Incredulously you stared at him. Of course he would have to pick a fight with them.
"Did they hurt you? Badly, I mean?"
You walked back to the front door of the flat and threw it shut, locking it, just for good measure.
"I dunno, a few bruised ribs, I guess," Frank answered, and you heard shuffling from the living room, guessing he had laid down.
Quickly you hurried into the bathroom, where you had the first aid kit stored, and then to the kitchen to grab some clean towels and some ice, before you returned to the living room.
"Let me take a look," you requested, sitting down in front of him.
"You don't have to do this, you know," Frank groaned, but sat back up anyway.
"When you turn up on my doorstep, I do," you informed, "take your shirt of."
Trying to calm your fluttering heart, you spread out the things you had fetched, and waited patiently until Frank had pulled off the t-shirt he was wearing. His pale, tattooed chest was covered in red and blue bruised, and just the sight of it made you hiss in empathetic pain.
"Ouch," you whispered to yourself, turning on the lamp next to the sofa to be able to see more.
"You don't say," Frank agreed sarcastically.
You ignored his reply, and instead started running your fingers over the bruises skilfully. In college you had been friends with a guy who participated in illegal fights every weekend, so you knew how to find a broken rib. But luckily Frank's seemed to be all in one piece.
He shivered under your touch, goose bumps rising where you had touched him.
"Your fingers are freezing," he whined.
"Sorry," you mumbled, reaching for a towel to wipe of a little bit of blood where his skin had broken under the impact of what you assumed had been a foot.
Carefully you sprayed wound disinfectant onto the small rip in the skin until you were certain it was clean, then you dipped away the excess, and placed a plaster over the cut. Luckily it was not big.
Frank was watching you carefully. Every single one of your movements seemed precise to him, and he was glad that he had followed his first instinct and turned to you for help.
It was always his first instinct to turn to you. When he was sad, you were the only person he wanted to talk to; when he was happy, he wanted to share it with you immediately. And you were the only person you would trust to take care of him. And if you cared about him the same way, then he could die a happy man. Only that this would probably never happen. After all, you were a beautiful, intelligent, funny person, and he was a punk who got into fights with Nazis.
He was so lost in thoughts that he had not noticed you applying a ointment to his bruises to help heal them. Only when you asked if his leg was injured, he snapped back into reality. He allowed you to pull up the fabric of his trousers, and gently tended to the bruises on his shins. Even though your fingers were still cold, and he hurt all over, every touch from you sent a shiver down his spine, and he focused on admiring you, while you worked.
Eventually you pulled the fabric back down, and looked up at him. His hazel eyes were watching you, and a nervous smile tugged on your lips.
"What?"
"You're perfect," he whispered, not even realizing what he had said until it was too late.
"What?"
You were painfully aware that you sounded like a broken record, but his words had thrown you off completely, and you felt a pink hue rise to your cheeks.
"You're perfect, you care so much about everyone, even when they're a stupid punk like me," Frank explained, figuring it was too late to draw back not. Hell, he had stood up against three Nazi-assholes tonight, he could probably also find the courage to tell you how much he liked you.
"Yeah, stupid for picking a fight like that," you agreed, and got up, shaking your head, trying to get the images out of your mind, which his words had planted there.
"Hey," he grabbed your wrist before you were able to turn away, "Thank you," he whispered, his voice sincere and soft.
For a second you just stared at him, watching his eyes flicker over your face, resting on your lips for a moment too long. Following an impulse, you leant down and kissed him, making him suck in a breath of surprise before he quickly reached up, and wrapped one hand into the hair in your nape, holding you in place. He tasted of blood and sweat, probably he had bitten the inside of his cheek during the fist fight, but you did not care. Not as long as he was safely sitting on your sofa, and kissing you back how you had always dreamt he would. You giggled in surprise as he pulled you down to sit on his lap, but quickly wrapped your arms around his shoulders.
"One thing, Frank," you pulled away from his tempting lips, and rested your forehead against his, "no more fights."
"But they were Nazis! They were assholes," he protested.
"Then take fucking martial art classes."