super freak alert

 It'd been a particularly rough trial for Franco. It always was when he had to work around that damn ship. Seeing her name plastered in bold letters made his mind wander, thoughts of her and his father opened a pit in his stomach. Guilt, rage, arousal, it all swirled in him and made his throat scratch and eyes burn. 

 And in a trial that was an issue. 

 The way she laughed in his face when he suggested running away played like a loop in his head, a brick bloodied his temple. The pure rage and disgust in his father's eyes when he found out bore into his brain, a bottle shattered against his ear. Leaving New Orleans bloody and broken and alone, all three rats escape. 

 The hall leading back to the Prime Assets’ sleeping quarters was riddled with teeth by the time Franco finished his tantrum. 

 He was already laid in bed, bandaged and drugged, when he heard the humming creep down the hall. He perked up instantly and raised his throbbing head faster than he should have, the burst of pain behind his eyes the punishment for it. Snapping his eyes shut, he let his head fall back again. 

 “Oh, dear, have I caught you at a bad time?” 

 He didn't say a word, simply raised his arms and whined. 

 Heels clicked in a hurry, hands gently slipping under his arms and hoisting him up into her waiting embrace. Gooseberry sat on his bed, the old thing creaking under her frame, and cradled him in her arms.

 She left Dr. Futterman tucked into her bed whenever she visited Franco. She knew how much he disliked daddy chaperoning them.

 “Poor boy, Mother’s here..” Her words tapered off into that familiar hum again, the sound vibrating in her chest. 

 It soothed Franco, the rumble and her warm arms both enveloping him and taking him far away from Sinyala. He buried his face in her neck, tears finally spilling when he was hidden away. 

 He felt so stupid, melting into her like this. He was a man, he didn't care about stupid fucking Angelina or his goddamn father, didn't care about being trapped here. And yet he kept crying.

 Gooseberry kissed his temple, rubbing circles in his back. She knew some of the mental torment he went through working the docks, listened to his tear thickened cries about what he'd been through. 

 “Shhh, it's okay Franco, sometimes…. Sometimes I miss my father too.” It was a rare moment of lucidity for her, the weight behind her words making it obvious she wasn't talking about the puppet. 

 He turned away from her tear slicked neck with a sniffle, eyes trained on the stained off white carpet that covered his floor. 

 “...Thanks, Goosey.” 

 She didn't speak again, opting to quietly sing a lullaby while rocking the small man. 

 -While the mafia did not like to talk about their involvement in gay bars, it meant Franco was not unused to seeing cross dressers and transsexuals. While other members of the family looked down at the community they were profiting off of, Franco thoroughly enjoys hanging around the bars.

 -When he’s in New York he takes any excuse to make runs there, conveniently in time to watch the drag queens flaunt and perform. What can he say, he's a man who loves performance. He meets you at one such event, whether you're there to drink or just for the community. 

 -He loves sitting and listening to you talk, he cannot get enough of your voice and ends up watching your lips more than whoever's on stage. Gin makes him touchy, constantly resting a hand on your arm or running his thumb along your knuckles. 

 -You tell him pretty early on that you're trans, and he absolutely does not care even a little. It might be a new experience for him, but once he makes up his mind on wanting something he does not change it easily. 

 -He loves to give you his clothes, loves the way his oversized suits drape your frame, the boxy shape complimenting you perfectly. In the same vein he takes great pleasure in buying you anything you want (cough paypig cough), he pays for you to get the nicest binder money can buy. 

 -While Franco enjoys being ‘the man’ of any relationship he's in, he concedes on some things. He can't deny it feels good to be the pampered one sometimes. 

 -He loves to show you off, hitting the town in complementary suits, arms linked. Everyone knows better than to mess with Franco’s man. 

 -He gives you his wallet at the start of nights out, he likes watching you push back your jacket and flip through the worn leather to spend his money. The flash of your suspenders over your dress shirt and belt are like crack to him. 

 -He has to always be making some kind of physical contact. Holding hands, arm around your shoulder, leaning against your side, hand in the back pocket of your pants. It's almost second nature to him, to always be touching. 

 -You’re the only one he lets touch the wheel of  his baby blue caddy, on days you’re especially down or dysphoric he tosses you the keys and lets you drive him around town. He’s a bratty passenger, but one hand on the wheel and the other on his leg shuts him up instantly. 

 -He gets you T. He knows a guy who knows a guy, you don’t want to know all the details. But he’ll do anything for you, squeezing a guy for HRT every month is baby shit to him. He’d kill if you asked him. Go ahead, ask him. 

 -He blows up university admissions officers for you <3

-Franco knows he’s bisexual. Always had a little sugar in his tank, so when he sees you he knows immediately he wants you. But he takes it slow, he knows better than to just assume and go up to a guy.

-It’s small things, at first just lending a hand with anything you could possibly need help with, chit chatting the whole time to learn anything and everything about you. Then he was out on the town and he saw this in a shop and thought you'd find it useful, and he bought too many shirts so you can have this one. Even though it's a couple sizes out of his range.

-He’s smooth, he’s charming, he knows how to court. But you’ll be the one to make the first move, Franco just can't let go of the fear of being wrong and getting outed.

-You’d both be nervous about hitting the town and running into someone Franco knows, so he'd take his baby blue caddy and drive till he doesn't recognize the streets no more and you two can enjoy a nice evening together. Stranger's judgement was no problem for you two, one glare from Franco and a gloved hand patting his waist was all they needed to leave y'all alone.

-He’s a great storyteller, even if he exaggerates a little, and his charm is back in full force.

-In a strange town he's a lot more forward, kissing the back of your hand, running his knuckles up your arm, practically sitting on top of you with how close he gets.

-He insists on pulling your chair out for you, opening the car door for you, footing the bill, driving you around. Even in a queer relationship he has the mindset of needing to be ‘the man’ in the relationship, thanks to his environment.

-Once he starts drinking he becomes a lot more forward, whispering in your ear with a cheeky buck toothed grin, motioning with his head for the two of you to head out, maybe find a motel for the night.

 Despite everyone’s assumptions Franco Barbi was not stupid. In his line of business he had to be smart, had to be aware and had to listen to his gut. 

 And right now his gut was telling something really bad had happened. 

 Prime Time was a Godsend for the Assets. A few weeks of lucidity, an event that kept the mind altering drugs that took him back to his father’s business at bay. Which is why Franco knew it’d been exactly sixteen days since you ran one of his trials. That's the longest you two have spent apart since starting your secret fling. 

 Were you mad at him? Had he said something to ruffle your feathers, to send you off to take your frustrations out on the redneck pig instead of rendezvousing with him? Surely not, Franco knew what pissed you off and avoided it like the plague. And even when you were your angriest you’d never punished him with distance for this long. You were too sweet on him for that. 

 He had to clear his mind, he couldn’t focus on this bullshit right now. He had a trial to run and he knew from personal experience if he ran around with too much on his mind he’d catch an extra bottle or brick to his noggin. Even if it didn’t make him any uglier it’d still smart like a bitch. 

 Pacifier in between his lips and Lupara in hand Franco was ready for the alarm telling him to pop out and join Mother Goose. Instead, the TV beside the metal doors lit up, the shadowy face of Dr. Easterman alerting him to a change in plans. 

 “A new Ex-Pop will be debuting in this trial, please be sure to give them a very warm welcome.” The Doctor sounded too jovial, a joke Franco didn’t get laced his words. 

 That sinking feeling in his gut returned. 

 Soon enough a familiar sound blared through the trial, a fog horn announcing the arrival of… something. Franco was well acquainted with that call, for a moment it stopped him mid chase and took him back to better times. Watching massive cargo ships pull out of port and disappear into fog, their horns staying long after they disappeared behind a curtain of gray. He made a mental note to check out who the new guy was as he resumed waving Lupara in the general direction of wherever that rat scurried off to. 

 Franco didn’t pray. He wasn’t particularly religious, despite growing up around devout Roman Catholics. The most he retained from going to Sunday Mass was his Hail Mary’s. He didn’t care to memorize Our Father. In that moment he wished he had. Wished he had the words to properly pray to God to stop the suffering in his mind. To stop his heart from breaking.

 Before him was a wretched thing, limbs twisted in the mock shape of a dog's digitigrade legs, fingers and toes nubbed and tipped with steel. Its back hunched, emaciated flesh visible between tatters of filthy cloth. And its maw. Oh god, its maw.

 Cracked lips curled back in a snarl to reveal long silver canines that framed unnaturally sharp, yellow, human teeth. It looked all wrong, like its flesh had been kneaded and stretched like dough. Skin taut and thin. A heavy collar with a bone shaped tag adorned its neck. 

 Franco would’ve laughed at the detail in any other situation. He would’ve laughed if it had been anyone else’s eyes staring through him. 

 Lupara slipped from his fingers, the clatter she made enough to break his frozen spell and send him to his knees spewing bile on the already filthy ground. 

 Once he started he couldn’t stop, tears and mucus joining the putrid puddle that threatened to mess his shoes. He wretched until he couldn’t anymore, until his throat was raw and burned and his chin was coated in muck and he truly looked like an infant that had spit up. 

 “Doll…?” His voice was scratchy and thick with spit. “Is.. Is that you..?” 

 You didn’t respond. Couldn’t, really. What came out instead was wet and guttural, a growling bark. 

 That broke him more than any words could’ve. 

 He crawled on his knees through his sick, gloved hands reaching pathetically for you. Before he could make contact a TV blared to life, static shifting to familiar shadows. 

 “This is a lesson for both of you, really.” 

 At the sound of Easterman’s voice you perked up in a way you hadn’t for Franco, bounding away from him and heeling below the TV. 

 “I know everything that goes on in this facility. You’d be wise to remember this: The Reagents will love me above all else. Even if I have to.. Change them a bit to regain their loyalty. Please, Mr. Barbi, don’t force me to teach this lesson twice.” 

 Click. 

 The black screen reflected your disappointed eyes back to you. You sniffed the box, searching for where your master had gone.