gut symmetries.

“yeah,” he squints under the fluorescent light of the bathroom, at will’s face, the look in his eyes, as his fingers trail along his wrist. “just a bath.”

a furrow sets in frank’s brow but he listens, taking off his clothes despite the strain on the stitches on his shoulder and careful, until he’s climb into the tub. it’s hot, instantly soothing the aches and pains that course through him. the tub’s long enough to lie back with his feet barely hitting the end of it, big enough so that he doesn’t feel entirely squeezed in. an exhale escapes as his eyes close at the smell of epsom salt.

he reaches to turn off the faucet and, then, for will’s arm. when they’re both in the tub, will’s back to his front, he wraps his arms around him and tucks his face into will’s nape, ignoring the tug of his stitches.

He can tell by the way Frank’s brow creases that he doubts the innocence of Will’s intent, which earns a small smile, more a twitch of his mouth than anything. To be fair, Will’s not even entirely sure of his intentions himself, at least not beyond keeping Frank with him. 

It hits him as he steps into the tub just how sore he is, acutely aware of each hurt and strain even as the heat begins to drain them away. Will closes his eyes, leaning back against Frank’s chest with a soft, appreciative sigh. For a moment it’s enough to savor the reality of him solid and warm at his back, his breath against Will’s shoulder and strong arms wrapped around him. 

Still, he can’t ignore the hunger like a physical ache in the pit of his stomach, the need to get closer, to feel alive or keep this alive feeling. Will turns his head to nuzzle against Frank’s, reaching back to rest one hand on his hip under the water. 

“At least they’ve given the hero cop stories a rest.” Will can’t entirely hide the disgust in his tone, sparing brief a glance down to her laptop where his mugshot stares, pallid and decidedly unwell, back at him from the screen. The irony of him being innocent when it was taken isn’t lost. 

“I wouldn’t go that far. And as far as I know Babe Ruth didn’t kill anyone.” He shakes his head, breath escaping him in an incredulous little huff of laughter--he’s still not entirely sure what he thinks of Villanelle, whatever understanding she has with Hannibal, doesn’t know if she’s refreshing or just downright aggravating. 

IT’S NICE, EASY – a smile spreads over his features at the feeling of will’s arms around him and the way his lips warm up his skin, more than his ears that flush already at the attention from their embrace. when will pulls away frank finds that his palm lingers on the small of will’s retreating back for just a moment, watching him set the rest of the table. it’s domestic, almost painfully so, even when frank almost trips over winston at his feet on his way to set the table with forks and knives.  

the concept of home has never been particularly easy for him; in fact, frank doesn’t quite know if he’s ever been there. but he imagines that home’s what it feels like when he pulls out will’s chair, the two of them sat beside each other at the small table so close that their knees touch. the table’s all set when the wine’s poured, dogtags catching on the lapel of will’s shirt with the collar popped open when he gestures for will to sit down.

“sounds like a plan t’me, agent graham.” he smiles with a certain glint in his eyes, knowing it’s a topic they’ll pick up with ease later. frank sits down first, chair creaking under his weight. rosie sits by his legs, a toy in her mouth. “i uh, i realized i haven’t had brisket since my ma last cooked it for me. i was twenty-two. it’s been - over ten years, now. it’s my ma’s recipe, down to the measurements. and, y’know, i’m guessing since you ain’t jewish or a city boy and all -”  his tone goes teasing, then, albeit still fond as he sips at his wine. he doesn’t usually drink it, either, hasn’t since sarah lieberman had gotten him drunk of three glasses of pink stuff in her kitchen over a year ago, but it’s richer than that, better. “you’ve possibly never tried it. at least, nothing like my ma’s. told you that i wanted to surprise you.”

No one’s cooked him dinner since Hannibal, since that other life, and Will doesn’t want to think about that now. It’s getting easier, finally, not to think about it. Maybe he has Frank to thank for that, or hell, maybe he should be thanking Billy Russo for putting a knife through his face. This couldn’t be more different, anyway--from the rustic plating to the choice of meal to the dogs nosing around and the way their legs brush under the table--

--still, it’s every bit as intimate, and it’s Frank all over, and that makes him smile, pressing his lips to his glass as he studies Frank across the table. The sight of him in Will’s button-down shirt, just too tight in the shoulders, with that light in his eyes and the way his gruff voice goes teasing--sends a rush of affection through him, and he takes a long sip of wine before answering.

“Guilty as charged.” He matches Frank’s playful tone, one eyebrow arching suggestively as he finally takes a bite. The brisket tastes exactly the way it smells--warm and smoky and savory, like home, or at least like home is supposed to. Home for him has always been wherever he’s made it.