Chapter Text
There is a very deep, almost primal pleasure to returning to this selfish indulgence of an apartment after being out in the shit. Frank’s given up the pretense of living a civilian life in many ways, and ultimately this deep satisfaction that floods him at the sound of his key turning in the lock of his own front door -- a sound that means, above all things, that he’s come home -- tells him nothing more or less than that he needs to give up this pretense too. It’s only a matter of time before someone connects some dots and this place becomes more liability than comfort.
Still, a week and a half squatting in some one-room shoebox, staking out a warehouse some Proud Boy dipshits had acquired, every waking moment with Lieberman in his ear -- at the moment, home sounds so quietly peaceful that the ridiculousness of him calling any place that falls to the wayside.
A shower, a hot meal that didn’t come from a bodega microwave, about a year laying in his own goddamn bed. That’s all he wants.
The apartment is warm enough to feel oppressive, which is an odd sort of relief. The stuffy air and the thick heat are markers of a room that's been left shut for several long, hot days in a row. It means no surprises, no one waiting for him in the dark, no misplaced clothes or new coffee mugs.
Wilson hasn't been here. Right now, that's a relief; it's easier to know how to deal with Wilson meeting him head on. Wrestling with that insane bullshit is all but impossible when he’s dropped in the middle of some gag only Wade’s fully aware of.
Most of the time, Frank reflects as he locks the door behind himself, it’s just frustrating. And he’s been frustrated enough, the last few weeks -- not even the pleasure of turning a dozen fascist shitsticks into wet smears on the concrete of their rented workshop space had done much to relax him.
At this point, he’s starting to think this is just his new baseline. Like a chronic migraine, chronic tension biting at him, putting him on the edge of a hair trigger rage, rough for a while until suddenly he’s used to it. Until it’s just the default: easy to mitigate and function around without being exploitable or distracting.
Lieberman suggested a break. A vacation. Take a few weeks, fuck off to somewhere tropical, enjoy a few nights on the beach -- relax, man, you don’t need to be out here every night.
Cracking the window nearest the bathroom open and shucking his sweat-soaked shirt, Frank indulges in the wry fantasy of himself on vacation at some quiet, peaceful little beach. Laid out on the beach like a target. Holed up in some too-nice resort Lieberman would find for him. Finding trouble, or letting it find him -- how many places on a beach provide decent cover? What firearm is best concealed in a pair of swim briefs?
There’s the trouble with this line of work, he thinks as the shower grumbles to life, sputtering lukewarm water on his upturned face as he sweeps his hair back (needs a trim; something to worry about after a few weeks of sleep). This line of work, you stop being able to take vacations. Stop being able to even imagine them.
That’s fine. It’s perfectly fine to Frank, because he’s never seen much point in vacation. He’d been inclined to go through the motions once, the motions of being a man who needed a break from war, who needed rest and relaxation, who needed a peaceful escape -- he’d played at being a man with a family and all the cute trappings that came with such a notion, but it had never been him, not really.
He was at home in the thick of it. The mud and blood and brutality, that was where he thrived. And if the war dog in his head snapped the chain he had it on, if he ran wild and became part of the filth he was working to wash the streets of himself -- if that happened, he had people now, people more than capable of putting him down.
It’s a comfort, as far as he’s concerned, knowing that the men he allows closest to him would do the right thing if push came to shove. Even Lieberman, he thinks, would help take him down, if it were necessary.
The shower helps. He feels less coiled on himself, viciously toweling his hair. Maybe not just the shower; for ten days he’s had someone either next to him or talking nearly continuously in his ear over com. He’s been directed, managed, handled; he’s been fed useless advice and subjected to enough tentative armchair therapy to last several lifetimes.
A little privacy, a little quiet. That’s the vacation he needs, just a few hours of that every now and then, and the sanctity of a place like this, a place that’s confined and mundane and human to burrow himself away in for those few hours.
He doesn’t need a vacation, he needs this. Privacy, silence, alone time.
Which is of course why, when he steps naked from the bathroom, he finds Wilson sitting at his rickety dining table. The darkness of the room is broken only by the flicker of two tall candles that Frank definitely does not own at the center of the table. Unbelievably, there’s also food on the table. It’s most certainly not home cooked, despite the fact that Wilson has, from god knows where, procured glossy china plates and tableware that gleam in the candle light.
“Pookie! I thought you were gonna stand me up!”
The window, when Frank glances that way, is still only cracked. Wilson must have used his key; the attentive way he’s sat up in his chair, perky as a dog waiting for his master’s praise, suggests he expects his appearance to be welcome.
Another night this might be funny. It might even be sweet, because Frank’s found that, if you don’t expect too much, Wilson can be sweet. In his own weird-ass way.
“I made all your favourites. By which I mean I went to that Italian place Nate took you to after the thing with Villain of the Week a few months back and coerced them with my dollars to make the food you might eat if you weren’t so ruggedly dependent on gas station burritos.”
The thing is, Wilson’s brand of sweetness requires patience and the willingness to see past layers of plastered-on intentionally obnoxious bullshit, and Frank is fresh out of both. Shower or no shower -- fifteen luxuriating minutes of solitude or not -- he isn’t in the mood for this shit. He only just barely has the civility left to register that he doesn’t want to hurt the jackass sitting at his table -- he doesn’t want Wilson gone for good, he just wants to be allowed a goddamn rest.
Drumming his fingers on the table, Wade almost looks anxious. Frank knows he’s not, because Wade doesn’t have the sense to get anxious over showing up unannounced when Frank’s fresh back from a long, obnoxious exercise in patience. Wade thinks the spare key Frank gave him is a free pass to unlimited patience on Frank’s part, that Frank will always be a few jokes away from allowing Wade in his space again.
Disingenuous, maybe. Frank grits his teeth and crosses the dim room toward his dresser, determined to at least get a goddamn pair of pants on before he deals with this. He wanted a hot meal anyway, and whether he appreciates the intrusion or not, the spread of food smells beyond appetizing.
“No need to stand on ceremony,” Wilson chirps from across the room, batting his eyes when Frank glares at him. Wade makes a show of looking him over, ground up, then back to his groin. When he finally meets Frank’s eyes, he bounces his eyebrows and stage whispers: “It’s not weird if I’m not wearing any panties either.”
Frank gives in and presses his hand to his face, pressure against his eyes that somehow soothes back the biting, unwanted annoyance. “What are you after here, Wilson?”
Wilson affects a mock-offended gasp, and Frank can picture the theatrics without looking: the hurt dialed up to absurdity, clown antics effectively blocking any worry of a genuine emotion slipping through. Which is intentional, Frank knows; he figured that shit out way before they ended up in bed together.
“I’m wounded. I’m hurt! Can’t a man shower his fuckbuddy in delicious food without implications of ulterior motives?”
It’s impossible, as is Wilson’s intent, to tell how much of that is pure ham put on to obscure any actual hurt. Frank thinks that warrants treating it all as an act, and if Wilson gets hurt worse by his doing so, well, maybe he’ll figure out this clown bullshit isn’t such a great defense mechanism after all.
Only problem there is, when push comes to shove, Frank likes Wilson more than he’s ever going to admit. He cares about hurting Wade’s feelings without good reason, and he’s more ashamed of the times he’s hurt the dumb bastard than he is of the fact that he cares at all.
So he huffs, turns away from the dresser and marches over to the table, rolling his eyes as Wilson claps his hands softly in delight. When Frank sits, Wilson waves expansively at the spread of food in a shockingly silent ‘help yourself’ gesture. After a moment, Frank starts pulling food onto his plate; there’s an insane number of carbs here, bread and pasta and steaming, crisp roasted potatoes with herbs and spices, and Frank knows he’s going to have to work like hell to counteract any of this shit in quantity, but he’s fucking hungry now, and it’s here.
The creak of wood and rattle of ice gets him to look up from a bite of carbonara. Wilson leans down to pull a bottle of wine from a bucket of ice on the floor beside him. As Frank watches, head tilted to let him split his attention between food and the merc, Wilson reaches to grab the empty glass beside Frank’s plate and pours for him.
“Did you know when you spend more than eighty bucks on a bottle of wine, they toss in an ice bucket for free?” Wade asks. He grins when Frank doesn’t answer, filling the glass far more than Frank thinks is typical. “Neither did they. Drink up, this is supposed to be a really good white, and I know how you like white fluids.”
Frank doesn’t know good wine from bad. He’s always preferred beer, and even there he’s not particularly picky. The wine, however, isn’t really for him. None of this is. It’s all part of some joke or scene that Wade’s setting to amuse himself, the food, the surprise arrival, the candles lighting their meal in an otherwise dark apartment.
“So,” Wilson says, sitting and pouring his own overly-generous glass. “Say I did have an ulterior motive.”
Unable to help it, Frank snorts around a mouthful of pasta, shaking his head. “What a shock,” he says, voice thick around the noodles. He’s not sure which part it is that hits the cynical funny bone he’s still got left: Wilson’s half-assed attempt at tact or the fact that the jackass can’t even pretend to be less than self-serving long enough to get through a meal.
Flapping a hand, Wilson makes some faux-chastising sound. “Eat, eat, don’t be rude. It’s a hypothetical. Like poisoned cats in boxes and changing black socks.”
Grunting, Frank returns to his food, intent on clearing his plate before he has to deal with whatever it is Wilson is building up to. If there is a god in heaven, it’ll just be sex. As a general rule, Wilson doesn’t feel the need to do grand gestures just to try getting in Frank’s bed, not of this variety at least, but trying to anticipate Wilson’s logic is itself an exercise in idiocy.
Frank’s crunching his way through stalks of steamed asparagus, woody but delicious despite the season, when Wade gives up twirling his wine and finally speaks up again. “Do you still call it a couple’s retreat when there’s three of us? Thrupple’s retreat? Threesome get-away? Anyway we slice it, it’s a beach episode.”
“I’m not going,” Frank grumbles, taking in the way his fingers have tightened on his fork and forcing himself to relax. After a moment, he sets the fork down entirely, picking up the dinner roll he’d put on his plate and taking half of it in a single bite. “Don’t know where you got the impression that I’ve got the time or inclination for vacation, but it’s not happening.”
“Your mouth says no, but your high blood pressure and icy deathgrip on patience says, ‘Wade, please, teach me how to frolic again’.”
Scowling, Frank crams the other half of the roll in his mouth and chews. “I’m not the frolicing type.”
“You absolutely could be though. Drink up, research shows wine is a great assist in that department.”
It’s hard to deter Wilson. Even when Frank does lose his patience with the stupidity and flirty bullshit, Wilson spins it into part of the joke. He takes everything in stride, up to and including Frank hitting him; he allows just about any kind of violence against him to slide, and Frank hates to think Cable had been right on the why of it. That Wade would rather be a punching bag than out of Frank’s life.
The idea is absurd and upsetting. Frank pushes it aside, letting it hit just hard enough to keep him civil.
“I don’t have time for it,” he says, hunching his shoulder and spiking a chunk of potato on his fork, straight from the container. His plate is empty. “I’m just here for one night of decent sleep and then I’ve got some shithead upstate to take care of.”
Wilson makes a considering sound, slurps at his wine. In the candlelight, his face looks like a halloween mask: a knock-off Freddy Kreuger or a fucked up Michael Meyers relaxing at a romantic interlude. Normally, if Frank wants even a hint of Wilson’s actual emotional state, his only chance is watching Wade’s eyes. In this light, there’s not even that.
“That the American Heartsblood Militia guy, Eric Whatshisname?”
Frank narrows his eyes and says nothing.
“...Cuz I know you were doing your stakeout and takedown thing on a different group of skinheads for the last while so maybe you didn’t hear the news.” Wade’s teeth gleam when he grins, a ferocity that always makes Frank want to bare his own in return. “Somebody shot him very dead yesterday. Lots of speculation since so many people fucking hated him. My bet’s on someone who wanted to free up everyone else’s time.”
“Then it’s somebody else,” Frank says, sour despite his effort to keep his tone flat and even. “There’s always somebody else.”
Wade’s face softens when he laughs this time, no longer the violence-hungry animal reporting on a kill. “Yeah, but at that point you can definitely start planning from some cute little pool-side lounge chair. It’s a vacation, a little R ‘n R, not a declared end to your extrajudicial efforts.”
Gently, Frank sets his fork down. He’s struck by the urge, nauseating in it’s pointlessness and it’s intensity, to swipe the too-nice dishes from the table, to shove the table into Wilson’s gut and keep shoving until he’s got the merc pinned like a bug to the wall.
He exhales and stands.
“I don’t have time for that shit.” He says curtly, trying not to be aware of how Wilson is ogling his dick. “I’m gonna sleep here tonight and tomorrow there will be something to get to. That’s how this shit goes.”
He does not apologize for this because he sees nothing to apologize for. They both know he’s right and even if he was wrong, he’s never been particularly apologetic. Wilson will pout like a child or continue griping for a while, try to get in Frank’s pants, and leave by the morning, the entirety of this game nothing more than a drawn out lead in to getting his dick wet. No point in indulging his own frustration, in answering the hackles-up snarls of that dog in his head.
Behind him, Wade starts whistling off tune, chair creaking as he leans in it, ostensibly trying to watch Frank in the gloom as he moves to the dresser in search of pants Wilson can talk him out of later.
This is what he gets for hoping for anything; hoping for a quiet weekend to enjoy nothing more social than whatever baseball game is playing tomorrow afternoon on public access. Of course Wilson would show up with some dipshit plan of a vacation in tow. That’s what Wilson does: find quiet and interrupt it.
“I spruced up your undies drawer,” Wilson says silkily from the table. “And all those roughed up black sweats. Really, babe, that Ariel Olivetti style 'off-the-clock musclehead' look is so 2007."
Dragging open the top drawer of the dresser, it’s too goddamn dark to tell what’s in there, but the touch of cool, silky fabric is immediately wrong. Frank doesn’t know why he expected anything else when he grabs something and it unfolds into a slinky triangle of fabric, a thong at least two sizes too small. “Goddamnit, Wade,” he growls, teeth grinding at the sound of Wilson’s bark of laughter as he throws the thong back in the drawer and bends to yank open the drawer that should hold his jeans.
Somehow, this is worse.
“You could absolutely shave and wax your pits though. I’d love to see you all oiled up ‘n clean.”
The drawer, which should be home to three pairs of secondhand shop sweats and three pairs of decent black jeans, is a pile of colourful basketball shorts, slick jersey fabric dyed bright enough that even in the dark Frank has no trouble telling they’ll be eye-searing with the lights on.
Every drawer he opens has undergone a similar transformation. Not a single article of his wardrobe remains as it was left. Even the slim drawer at the very bottom where he stashes bits of potentially useful junk has been opened and resupplied, stuffed with vibrators and condoms.
Frank’s teeth hurt, he’s grinding them so hard, and he finds himself holding his breath against speech, certain that if he breaths a single word he’ll end up shouting.
"I may have saved those old things. Maybe packed you a bag. You're welcome." The jackass continues, relentless and unhindered as always by Frank's sour mood. "Undies, socks, everything. Although…"
There's a way of speaking that Wilson has perfected, where the last word of a statement lilts upward in register, not as a question but nearly always in mockery. It's the preamble to teasing, and, in a different mood, Frank might be fighting a smile just hearing it. As it is, he straightens, breathes out slowly through his nose and nudges the bottom drawer shut with his foot. He stands stock still in front of his dresser, naked and struggling to smother his useless rage.
"Only thing I couldn't find was those excellent 'blaze it' socks I bought you last year, and since Natey-poo insists you don't throw anything away -- which is hoarding, bee-tee-dubs, but we'll address that in another arc --"
"I'm not going," Frank repeats flatly. "I've got–”
The brush of Wade’s fingers up the back of Frank’s neck is more than enough to make Frank flinch, when he hadn’t even noticed the bastard creeping in close enough to manage it. He has to give himself credit though; much as he wants to, he doesn’t sock Wilson in the face.
Doesn’t stop the dumbass from sensing where his impulse went, though. Frank knows Wilson clocked the violent reflex because that hand ruffles the fine hairs at the nape of neck, scritching at him like he’s a particularly amusing dog as Wade breathes a soft bit of praise.
“Shh, that’s a good boy.”
It should be infuriating.
It’s exactly the kind of shit that should piss him all the way off, clinch the violent impulse, make him double down on the instinctual drive to maim anyone who would dare talk to him like that.
It’s absolutely not something that should actually soothe him. And yet, as he sighs through his nose and lets his shoulders slope, he can feel himself resigning to this. Won over with two syllables and a patronizing hand, if that doesn’t speak to the levels of exhaustion he’s combatting here, he doesn’t know what could.
“Where do you want to go?”
Wilson is fever hot, always. In the winter, Frank reckons this clingy horseshit will actually be pretty okay again, but it’s mid-July and hotter than fuck, so anyone slipping to pressup against Frank’s spine, wrapping arms around him and breathing against his neck, anyone doing that is wretched. With Wade, Frank can immediately feel himself start to sweat like he’s running a fever of his own.
Trying to shake Wilson off doesn’t do much. For an obnoxious, impulsive little shit, Wilson has a fair amount of tenacity, and he’s strong enough that Frank will have to genuinely work to get out of his grip.
“How do you feel about Vancouver Island,” Wilson breathes in Frank’s ear, whispery enough to make Frank’s skin prickle despite the lack of sex appeal in the words. “I know what you’re thinking: Canada has too many gun regulations. Consider though: Nate’s got that good bodyslide tech.”
Grumbling and shrugging his shoulders, Frank manages to half extract himself from Wade’s grip, scowling when the man just holds on harder. “I’m having a really hard time imagining why you need me with you if you’ve got Cable on board.”
Wade kisses Frank’s ear, wet and obnoxious. “Well, see, I totally would, but I bought this big dumb dog last year.” When Frank grumbles something under his breath, Wade starts chuckling like Frank just told some dry joke he found passably funny. “I just don’t think I’d get any relaxation in, worrying about if anyone remembered to feed him. Clean up after he pisses on the rug. All that good stuff.”
“Piss on you,” Frank growls without thinking, and winces before Wade gives the very predictable hum of approval, fingers trailing down his stomach.
“Promises, promises, Frankie.”
There’s sweat beading up in the small of Frank’s back, the crack of his ass. He just showered and this mutate asshole has him sweating just standing here.
Heat, sweat, the pressure of Wade’s dick against his ass -- there’s a specific set of bodily responses all but hardwired into him, and Wade, goddamn little shit, is playing them, banking on them. It’s infuriating, not that his dick cares, half chubbed and eager for the attention Wade’s hand sliding up and down Frank’s belly promises.
After a few seconds of Wade scratching his fingers through the upper half of Frank’s bush and giving him nothing else, Frank finally caves.
“How long is this supposed to last?” He grunts, letting himself relax minutely against Wade’s chest as the man finally curls his hand around Frank’s dick. Frank can’t see Wade’s face at this angle, but he can tell the jackass is grinning anyway. The curve of his mouth confirms it, when he presses it to Frank’s shoulder.
Wade’s got a sure grip, mottled, scarred fingers squeezing just right as he slowly strokes Frank hard. It’s frustrating -- borderline humiliating -- how good Wade makes him feel even when he’s pissed off. “The age-old question. Lotsa guys would say as long as we can make it, but it’s always so cute when you shoot off a minute in.”
Frank’s eyes drop closed, one of his hands sliding up over Wade’s, making him stroke a little faster, rocking his hips into it. “The trip, jackass.”
“Oh, I dunno,” Wade purrs, lowering his arm from where it’s been locked around Frank’s shoulders, sliding it down so he can grip Frank’s hip. Like this, breaking free would be a cakewalk, but Frank barely entertains the thought, keeping himself still as Wade drags his clothed dick against Frank’s bare ass. “Till we get bored, I guess. How do people usually plan these things?”
“The weekend.”
“Snore. You lasted longer than that snowed in without power. A month.”
Frank grunts, taking his hand off Wade’s so he can reach behind himself and slip his fingers beneath the waistband on Wade’s tacky sweats, encouraging him. “If we leave tonight, you have three days before the weekend is over.”
Wade fakes a whine and when he tries to let go of Frank’s dick, Frank growls. Hand back in place, stroking less than half the speed Frank wants, Wade protests: “We did the snowed in, bed-sharing thing for four days and no one got laid!”
“That was work.”
“Exactly,” Wade says, as if Frank’s just argued his case for him. “C’mon, we’ve earned some fun in the sun! A month. At least. ”
“You’re welcome to stay out there as long as you want,” Frank says, using his grip on Wade’s waistband to hitch him closer. “You get me for the weekend.”
“Two weeks,” Wade offers, squeezing his fingers and rotating his wrist in a way that makes Frank groan. “Two weeks and you can slip me a breakfast nut every day.”
Shocking, Frank thinks, that it’s tempting to agree. Wade gives great morning head. Great head in general. “Weekend. Best I can do.”
The frustrated noise Wade makes is completely inappropriate for an adult man in the middle of giving the world’s slowest handjob. A faint smile creeps on Frank’s face, the benefit of Wade’s distracting bullshit finally hitting him. Maybe a few days away from the city and the war isn’t such a bad idea after all.
Wade’s hand wraps fully around Frank’s cock, pressing him down and just holding him like that, tight but ineffectual in terms of letting him actually get off. It’s a threat, Frank can recognize that immediately, but it’s a threat that relies on Wade’s self control, a bluff, and so he doesn’t find himself particularly worried.
“Say a week and I’ll suck you off right now,” Wade says, kissing at the back of Frank’s neck, licking at his hairline. Disgusting, except it reminds Frank of exactly how not disgusting Wade’s mouth can be.
“You wanna suck me off anyway.”
“So say yes.” Wade’s tongue traces the curve of Frank’s ear, teeth grazing the lobe in a half-assed attempt at a bite. “Say yes, Frankie, c’mon.”
Frank tries to do a little mental math. What assholes are currently in play, who’s been making what kinds of moves, how much of a shitstorm he’ll be walking into after even a weekend away. He tries to think of it rationally, tactically.
Then Wade pulls back just a little, sliding his hand off Frank’s hip, and suddenly there’s no sweatpants between Frank’s ass and Wade’s cock. Sweat isn’t much of a lubricant when it really counts, but it does just fine for Wade sawing his dick between Frank’s cheeks, rubbing that freakish heat and ropey scar tissue against Frank’s hole in a way that makes any thought very, very difficult.
“That a better bargaining chip, sweetcheeks?” Wade asks sweetly, hand on Frank’s hip again, helping him rock back on that cock. “Been a minute, hasn’t it, you so busy working.”
“Fuck,” Frank breathes, thinking back to the weirdly mindblowing experience of riding Wade on his couch. Had it really been the better part of a year since he did that? “Christ.”
Wade rocks against him a little harder and squeezes his dick again, and suddenly the idea of waiting him out, betting on Wade’s impatience to guarantee his orgasm and end this bartering shit in one, looks less than ideal. “Those aren’t answers, Frankie, those are swears.”
“Fuck,” Frank repeats, mentally clawing for a slip of rationalization. “Fine. One. I’ll give you one fucking week.”
“Ooo, that’s an apt way of putting it,” Wade says cheerfully, taking his hand off Frank’s leaking cock just long enough to lick his palm, hauling Frank back against him and letting his own dick slip between Frank’s thighs. On reflex, Frank squeezes his legs together and bucks back slightly, sweat giving all the glide they’re going to get as Wade starts jerking him off in sincerity.
It’s not the rough fuck Frank wants, but it’s good, the burn of Wade fucking his thighs and the clench of Wade’s hand around him. Wade tugs him to bend a bit, pushing hard against Frank’s ass and following the curve of his spine as Frank leans forward to press his forearms to the dresser, Wade panting and babbling nonsense against his shoulder.
“I’m gonna get Nate to cum on your thighs and do this again over the weekend,” Wade grunts, and Frank bares his teeth, eyes squeezing shut. “Get you so wet. Double stuffed.”
“Shut the fuck up, ” Frank snarls, half begging even as he’s cumming, splattering the front of his dresser and gasping raggedly as he bucks back against Wade. The heat and texture of Wade’s fingers still wetly squeezing on him is too good, his hips stuttering to chase it even though he’s spent, and Wade gamely follows, hips jackrabbiting against Frank’s ass as he fucks his thighs.
Wade laughs as he cums: that high, unfocused glee that always seems to overtake him when he’s getting it so good he stops being able to make actual words, and it’s disgusting, hot slick wetness spurting between Frank’s thighs, the back of his balls; disgusting and so goddamn good in the moment that Frank can’t stop himself from groaning, flexing his thighs in an attempt to milk Wade for all he’s got.
They end up against the dresser, Frank sagging forward on it with Wade cleaved to his back, panting against his shoulder blade. It’s not the worst feeling, though it’s way too hot for this shit. The heat, at least, prolongs the cooling of the cum on him.
“God,” Wade says, pulling back slowly. “I always forget how hot you get when you make a good, hard deal.”
“Jesus Christ,” Frank says, resting his forehead on the back of his hand and taking a moment to catch his breath. “When are we supposed to leave?”
Walking his fingers up Frank’s arm, Wade slips in close again, folding his hands on Frank’s shoulder and seeming to consider. “After you shower at least, sheesh. You reek, Frank.”