Chapter Text
i.
David is far too gentle with Frank.
Frank has not known a gentle hand since the death of his wife. He hasn’t allowed himself one. Doesn’t deserve one, but David doesn’t care.
David must have trained wolves in his past life because he doesn’t fear Frank. Without that fear, Frank is nothing.
David doesn’t think that. Frankly, he doesn’t really care what Frank thinks of himself, because he thinks Frank’s great... It’s almost as if he’s trying to convince Frank the same.
Because David is gentle, and soft, and doesn’t back off when it’s socially appropriate. He enjoys having another person around, that’s for sure, and the concept of personal space is clearly lost on him. Frank finds that he doesn’t really mind (he did, but got over that pretty quickly), and often catches himself basking in the comfort the other man is trying to give. Frank will never tell him it helps, but that’s okay. David knows as much.
It started after Gunner died... Kinda.
Frank had been an open wound; his past creeping up to attack him when he thought he was free. When Gunner thought he was free.
It’s clear David feels bad. It didn’t matter how knocked Frank was, he felt that guilt: the way he held Frank against his chest while Curt poked and prodded at him. The way he rested his mouth against Frank’s shoulder, gripping him tight as Curt stapled his skin closed. The way he leans down, right beside the hot blade, and turned Frank’s face into his neck, holding him away from the blade, as if he didn’t want Frank to look.
Curt is angry at David. Frank knows that for sure. Curt is not easy to anger. It’s clear Curt didn’t like the way that David was touching him: like Frank was something breakable. Even as they pulled an arrow from his shoulder blade, Curt “tsk”ed at David, but he left without saying much of anything.
Then Frank was hurt and benched. He spent most of the day curled like a fetus in bed, not doing much, not saying anything. He would have cried if it didn’t hurt so bad, his whole body racking with the force of the sobs he knew would come if he let himself tear up. Emotions are a slippery slope.
And David would wrap his wounds, and feed him, and throw an extra blanket on him when he deemed it “bedtime”, even if Frank could never find sleep. David would turn on the radio for him, explain what he saw on his cameras, or just sit in silence beside him. It all worked. It all made Frank feel better.
The second night Frank knew David would have something to say about him not sleeping the previous night. Maybe he’d try and drug him, maybe he’d offer to snuggle him. The possibilities were endless, at this point; David was a wildcard with him.
Instead, David offered him hot chocolate, steaming from Frank’s favourite red mug, and when Frank refused, he sighed. “You've been layin’ here all day and still haven’t slept.”
Frank says nothing. David is simply stating facts.
The silence is apparently the wrong response, and David huffs again, sinking to sit on the edge of the bed where Frank is facing away from him. Frank can feel him against his lower back, but still doesn’t move. David sips the mug he brought for him and sighs a final time. Frank’s in for it now.
Instead of attacking him in his weakened state, voicing all the things Frank’s own head is screaming at him: ”Get your sorry ass out of bed, we’ve got work to do, you useless—“ David moves and drags a hand up Frank’s spine. He tenses, but that’s never stopped the guy before, and he continues his slow drag up and down, fingers dancing lightly. Then he pushes at Frank’s (uninjured) side and tells him to lay flat.
After a moment, Frank twists and flattens down on his stomach. He keeps his head turned away from him as David continues to run up and down his back. His muscles are tight, they both feel it. With his next stroke, he drags Frank’s shirt up with the hook of his thumb, relieving the tortured skin and bandaged wounds.
David drags his fingertips down the length of Frank’s back, lightly scratching the skin, without even looking. They both know his back is littered with bruises, but he never hits one. It’s as if he knows Frank’s body better than Frank does. Instead, he sips his cocoa and tells Frank how his mother used to scratch his back when he was sick. He used to get sick a lot; his bright red nose was a tell-tale sign of his latest virus. He says his mother would lie beside him and scratch his back, the sensation relaxing and beneficial, since she believed the stimulation would blood flow. “I’d fall asleep in a second,” David says, smiling to himself.
Frank dreamt of a curly-haired boy with a red nose, and if he felt a kiss pressed to his shoulder blade, it was simply a dream.