#snowfall x reader

“I said ‘don’t’” he grumbles, mild irritation in his voice. Everything hurts right now, and it’s not just the bright lights above him. His ribs are definitely bruised, his right hand aches, and his back is sore. All he wants to do is sleep.

Scoffing, your frown deepens. “This is my house and you came here covered in blood. I’ll do as I please,” you fire back, the lack of sleep seeping already affecting your attitude. Franklin tried to match your frown but it’s hard to tell with a swollen eye, to witch he lets out a quiet groan. “Come on.” You sigh, flicking off the light and pulling him down the hallway into the bathroom.

Depositing his gun on the counter, Franklin takes a seat on the toilet lid and hunches over, putting his head in his hands and closing his eyes. “What hurts?”

“Everything,” he mumbles, wincing at the feeling of his lip being stretched where the cut is. “My eye, my back, my mouth. Everything.”

Rather than replying or taking another look at his battered face, you keep digging under the sink until find peroxide and bandaids, as well as an instant ice pack. Crushing up the ice pack, you hand it to him once it starts to feel cold. “Here,” Franklin accepts it and presses it against his face, sighing at the coolness. “Sit up.” You command after drenching a few cotton balls in peroxide.

Obliging, Franklin straightens up and lets you start to clean up the dried blood on his face. He can’t help but watch you, feeling grateful for your care especially since he decided to show up unannounced and late. “Who did this?” You ask quietly, rather than asking what happened. You’d rather not know. Franklin opens his mouth, and you stop him before he can get a word out. “And don’t lie, Franklin.”

He can’t help but chuckle, though he quickly stops when he feels it in his ribs. The person is on the tip of his tongue, though he debates telling you for he knows how you’ll react. “Franklin,” you press, lifting the cotton ball from his face and softly pushing his jaw to look up at you.

When you meet his eyes, something inside of you softens despite the state he’s in. You hate what he chooses to do for work, you hate the danger he’s constantly in. You hate when he comes by looking like this, blood all over his face and clothes like it’s nothing. You cast a glance at the gun on the counter and pull your bottom lip between your teeth as your thumb gently strokes the soft skin of his cheek. Franklin follows your gaze and grabs ahold of your free hand. “Jerome.”

A look of confusion crosses your features. “Jerome? Your uncle?” Franklin only nods, and your confusion shifts to frustration and anger. “What the fuck, Franklin?” You drop your hand from his face and place it on your hip, slipping the other one out of his grip; the groove between your eyebrows deepening. Franklin waves off your anger with a wave of his hand and a shake of his head.

“It’s handled, baby. Don’t worry about it,” scoffing, you shake your head at him in proper disbelief. You want to argue with him, want to yell and scream. You want to fight; him, his uncle, everyone that had something to do with it. But above it all, you want to understand why these things happen to Franklin, why he chooses this life everyday over another one.

Instead you just shake your head, too tired to fight and yell, and go back to taking care of him. Maybe you apply a little too much pressure when you clean his cuts, and maybe his hisses more than before, but neither of you say anything. You just frown and tend to him, spending extra time on his split lip. These lips, you think, and almost sigh.

“You’re going to get wrinkles,” Franklin quips, making your eyes snap to his in a glare. He gives you a slight smirk and you roll your eyes.

“I’m done, smartass,” you grumble and toss the soiled supplies in the trash. Franklin stands up and groans, all of his muscles feeling tight. There’s still an ache in his ribs, but as long as he can breathe he considers himself lucky.

“Thank you,” he says, bracing himself against the counter. You turn and face him, shoulders dropping when you look up at him. Though you don’t agree with his lifestyle completely, you’d do this again in a heartbeat. As long as he comes back to you each day and night, you’ll gladly step in and play nurse, even if it’s delivered with an attitude.

Franklin leans down a bit and your hands come up to cup his jaw. His eyes flutter closed when you press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, not yet ready to meet his swollen bottom lip. “Let’s go to bed.”

The two of you shuffle back to your bedroom and you slip under the covers while Franklin gets undressed in the dark. Pulling the blanket up to your chin, you watch him with the small amount of light the moon allows. His muscles flex in his back when he pulls his shirt over his head, accompanied by a wince that pulls at your heart strings.

Feeling your stare, Franklin looks over his shoulder at you as he unbuttons his pants. “What?” You only shake your head, and you know if his lip didn’t hurt that he’d be giving you that infamous smirk. Rather than that, he pulls of his pants and then crawls into bed next to you. “C’mere.” He pulls you back towards his chest, a heavy arm slipping over your midsection.

It’s only a few minutes later, when his breathing becomes more even and you feel him relax into sleep that you realize your anxious feeling has been lifted and replaced with something more personal and intimate, more tangible. You’re sure it’s love.