(it’s not his fault) Of course it isn’t, Mando’s whole plan was to leave you and Bean here. He had no intention of dumping you on a strange planet by yourself.  (it’s your fault) A sneaky dark voice brings tears back to your eyes, squinting shut against them. You thought Bean had warmed to you, maybe even preferred your company to Mando at times. You certainly spent a lot of time with him, between the feeding and the entertainment and the sheer amount of alone time you both spent together.  (not enough for him to want to stay with you) Your brain helplessly follows this train of thought. Bad enough that Mando’s attentions feel mercurial by the day, but for the child’s to mimic that was too cruel. What more were you supposed to do? You cared for Bean, more than you’d admit without embarrassment.  (cared for Mando too) But it wasn’t enough. You weren’t enough. Not enough to stay, or trust, or think of.

We're doing parallel storylines baby! While Mando gets into antics for the next couple episodes, you'll get to see what some extended time without her little clan of two looks like, and how things might fare when Mando returns. This is a beefy installment so it's been taking a little while to get up and running (plus writers block has been a bitch) but I'm hoping to get something to you soon!

(also I'm laughing over the roll-a-trope thing too, I have such a cute idea and I need to write it down! It'll appear one day!)

Too old.

Too big.

Too cautious.

Too Frankie.

The boys reassure him that he’s still got it, but watching Benny in boxing practice, all corded muscle and lightning reflexes, makes his soft stomach clench. Frankie bets he looks good no matter what lighting he’s in. That the clients he beds must love looking at his body. 

Fuck, he should work out more.

Seeing Will’s skilled hands taking apart the guts of a Harley, fingers quick and nimble, eyes sharp as he scours for problems, makes Frankie’s thick fingers feel clumsy. He must be able to pinpoint exactly what his clients want, read their bodies to know when to speed up, where to press and stroke to elicit the highest peaks. Frankie sometimes worries he’s all big hands and power over precision, no matter how many times his fingers have been complimented as long and talented and so much better than their own. 

Whenever Frankie has to don reading glasses at the end of the night, eyes exhausted and blurry, the idea that he’s even getting too old for his other profession gnaws at him. By the time he’s off probation and able to reapply for his pilot's license, his vision might be too far gone. The best years of his life squandered because he couldn’t keep it together without a line or two. He’s lost his glasses under the couch several times, sweeping them off the table with frustration.

Too blind.

Too clumsy.

Not what a client wants.

Santi always gives it to him straight, so when he asks why Benny is still getting the random client here and there and Frankie isn’t, he contemplates the answer over the top of his beer bottle before answering.

“It’s all about the people who call, Fish. I’m not just choosing for them, I’m choosing for you too. I don’t want to give you just any job that might…” Santi raises his eyebrows, the implication silent.

A job that might tempt him back to old habits. That might trigger him to turn back on the year of sobriety just to quiet his mind. A client who throws a callous word or a session that goes sideways and pulls at Frankie’s restraint and hard work.

Frankie hates that even after all he’s done, there’s still a fine thread of doubt sewn into the friendship between them. He wishes he could snap it, pull it free from the fabric, but it’s holding closed a larger wound he’s unwilling to open. 

Santi doesn’t trust him after the coke.

Frankie doesn’t trust him after Colombia.

They both have threads the other won’t pull. The risk is too great.

Santi’s eyes are kind when he slaps Frankie on the shoulder, jostling his warming beer and veering away from the topic.

“I also don’t want to give you someone who isn’t going to appreciate you and what you bring to the table,” he says. Frankie scoffs, sipping some of the foam off the lip of the bottle. “I mean it, you’re good at pleasing people, from the reviews I’ve heard, and it kills me when you come back miserable.” Santi watches Frankie with an openness that makes the man squirm, deferring with a nod and an, “Okay, sure.” Santi shakes his head.

“Fish, I promise the next client I send you will be because I think it’s a good match.”

How right Santi had been about that.

When Frankie got the call in the late afternoon, ambling out to his truck to head home from the shop, he had to make Santi repeat himself.

“You want me for a client?”

“Yeah, cabrón, are you free?”

Frankie’s mouth dried out a little at the thought. It had been four months since he’d gone home with a girl from a bar, which was…fine. She was nice, they parted amicably late in the evening. Before that, there was only one client that preferred to be taken from behind. Minimal small talk. Fast and rough and quiet. He was toweling off in the hotel bathroom as the door shut behind her.

Maybe it was time he hung up the mantle.

“Why me?” he finally asked, cringing at how small the words made him feel. Santi’s warm chuckle on the other end of the phone eased a little of his anxiety.

“She’s different from my usuals, and I think you’ll be a good fit. Not looking for sex, just someone to spend some time with her. Take care of her a little bit. Sound familiar?” Frankie blushes and huffs at the insinuation. Santi always teased him for how he treated his past girlfriends. “Puppy Dog Morales,” he would croon when he caught Frankie doting on them. Didn’t really roll off the tongue, but “STD Santi” did when Frankie tossed it out after another one-night stand that had Santi limping back home.

Frankie took a breath, trying to shift into the headspace to meet a client. He’d need at least an hour to get home and shower, make sure he was well groomed and neat. Then travel to wherever she was, negotiate what she wanted, and…get to work.

The little thrum of excitement in his chest moved him to speak. 

“Yeah, I’m free.”

Standing in front of your door, Frankie calms his racing mind. This is far from the first time he’s stood at the edge of the cliff, steeling himself for whatever reaction might come when the door opens. It’s always there, though, like a burst of stage fright before the leading man steps onto stage, all smiles and confidence. It is a sort of performance, after all, and the nerves leading up to it are only half due to being naked in short order.

Big, dopey, soft Frankie needs to be exactly what the woman on the other side of this door wants, and he pulls his mind into the pilot’s focus he’s honed over the years. 

He knocks. The knob twists.

And you’re there.

At first glance he’s attracted to you. To your proportions, your bright eyes, your smile. Then to the nervous energy he can feel coming off of you, endearing and bashful. It makes him want to calm all your fears, soothe you with his hands. You’re the perfect size to be wrapped up in his arms. 

Frankie nods at you, filling the doorway with his too-big body, his broad shoulders and his thick thighs and soft stomach and his aging face. He smiles, the practiced lopsided one that makes him look sexy rather than his larger, more scrunched-up happy one, and says hello.

And it’s here when it happens. When Frankie says it was love at first sight, this is the moment he thinks of. Because you look at him, your eyes passing over all of the things that make him feel self-conscious, and your face only says one thing.

There you are.

It’s an expression filled with relief, with amazement, with excitement and trepidation but also with such a sense of satisfaction at the man standing before you that it takes Frankie’s breath away.

There you are.

Like you were waiting just for him.

There you are.

Like you want exactly what he has to give and you are so happy he’s here for you.

Frankie has to redirect, make a little joke to ease the hammering pressure of his heart behind his ribs.

“Can I come in? Or is this a little too much? I can take a lap if you want.”

And then you stutter and smile and he’s a goner.

He still sees it now in the moments that day-to-day life presents. 

On the first date you went on after the session, you opened the door with that same expression and Frankie had to kiss you right then and there across your threshold. You squeaked against his lips, a smile tugging your mouth tight as he pressed your foreheads together.

Then later that night when he holds your gaze as you’re coming down from another peak. You whisper, “Are you real? You can’t be real, you’re too fucking amazing,” and he chuckles and nips at your chin, heart fluttering separate from exertion.

Walking into your kitchen with takeout a few minutes late, you spinning around and making grabby hands for a hug. 

At a bar after a long day when you see him across the room, tension melting from you.  

When you tell him how sexy he looks in his thick black frames and he tries to defer the compliment, you threaten to prove to him exactly how much he turns you on.

Frankie doesn’t mind the glasses as much after that.

You feel like home to him. No matter who he is, what he’s done, how he feels, you always look at him like he’s exactly what you need.

During one of Benny’s fights, when Frankie’s focus is far away thinking about how he compares to the men around him, you catch his eye.

“There you are, handsome,” you say, squeezing his bicep with a cheeky smile. “Thought I lost you for a minute there.”

Frankie pulls you into his side, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“Never, babe,” he murmurs into your ear.

What’s Frankie’s favorite part about Ms Jackson?

That she makes him feel like he belongs with her every single day.

END

Want to know more about Frankie? Send me an ask! Your question, headcanon or prompt may become the next part of the story. If you've already submitted one, it takes me a few weeks to answer so keep a lookout for yours!