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aseriesofunfortunatetexts · 9 months

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Once upon a time, @asoue-network held a charity raffle. I’ve owed @deweysdenouement a fic ever since. Well, here it is, two years later. Sorry about that, my love.

a recovery, an awakening, a love story

Frank Denouement/Jacques Snicket, Explicit, 12k.

Warnings for bloody injuries, an awkward courtship, graphic sexual content, and some self-indulgent quoting of classic literature

AO3 link, if you prefer that

(not beta read, so if you see glaring mistakes, no you didn’t)

Frank only learns about Jacques’ presence at the hotel when he goes over the day’s paperwork long after dinner. It’s mildly perplexing, discovering about it that way. Jacques doesn’t usually show up unannounced, and certainly doesn’t check in without letting Frank know he is here. The records state that Ernest was the one to greet him and assign him a room (070, meaning he is supposedly here in a journalistic capacity), but Ernest hasn’t felt the need to let Frank know anything about it. Normally he would, if only to gauge Frank’s reaction to Jacques’s unexpected appearance. The fact that he didn’t? Frank is unsure about what that might mean.

The information he gets from the records would be useless to most people, but the questions he can raise by virtue of his profession and VFD training are potentially concerning. Jacques checked in well after the 2PM rush (to avoid the crowds?), booked the room for two weeks (a suspiciously long time), and ordered breakfast for every morning, to be delivered to his room (why not eat at the breakfast buffet in one of the restaurants like he normally does?). The only note made on the breakfast request is ‘unsweetened black tea’ – at least that doesn’t set off any alarm bells.

It is probably too late to get answers now, most people are turning in for the night, but Frank still finds himself drifting down the hall to room 070, only to find the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign hanging on the doorknob. If he were any one of his fellow volunteers, he would ignore that, but he’s not – he’s a hotel manager at the finest hotel in the City. There’s a sanctity to the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign that he is not willing to breach, even though it’s Jacques, and even though he is slightly worried.

He goes back to his office and resumes his work.

***

It’s not that he has forgotten about Jacques by the next day, it’s just that he has plenty of things to occupy him all morning and through to lunch. After the clock has struck twice, he automatically checks the housekeeping status report and discovers that room 070 is still marked as ‘DND’. Now that is... weird. Jacques loves fresh sheets and a clean space, details Frank made a note of years ago, so why would he turn away housekeeping?

Frank tracks down a member of the staff that worked the ground floor, and all he gets out of her is that the breakfast tray was found outside the door of rom 070 at 9AM, missing only the tea. Nobody has seen the occupant in the flesh yet.

He does not allow himself a frown, because housekeeping does not need to know he is bothered by this.

The ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign is still in place at three, and at four, and at five, at which point Frank decides that his hourly pilgrimages to Jacques’ room are getting absurd, so he stops.

Dinner has come and gone by the time Ernest appears in their office, walking up to Frank’s desk and pausing there. Frank pointedly ignores him for a bit, on principle, but Ernest doesn’t move. At around the 10 seconds mark, he clears his throat.

“Yes?” Frank asks with practiced detachment.

“You should go check on Jacques.”

Frank tenses, although he keeps his eyes on the paperwork he has been working on. “Why?”

He hears Ernest sigh with barely hidden frustration before saying, “Just a bit of brotherly advice.”

That gets Frank’s attention. He looks up, finding Ernest’s expression carefully neutral, which is... strange. “What do you know?”

Ernest shrugs one shoulder. “Nothing. Apart from the fact that he didn’t look too good when he arrived. He was limping.”

“And you didn’t tell me this earlier because...?”

His brother smiles wryly. “It’s none of my business what your side gets up to.”

“Isn’t it?”

Ernest’s smile turns even more dry. “Touché.” He sighs once more. “I just think you should break protocol this once, and go make sure he is okay,” he says, adding, “I know you want to.”

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” Frank replies automatically.

“Of course not. Fine, do whatever you like. But don’t say I didn’t try.” And with that he strolls over to his own desk, picks up a folder containing who knows what, and leaves.

Frank waits exactly two minutes to get up and make his way to Jacques’ room. Once he is there, he completely ignores the sign and knocks on the door, a series of determined raps that he is sure Jacques will recognize as his.

He does.

“Go away, Frank.”

His voice sounds disturbingly shaky as he replies from within, and if Frank hadn’t been worried before, he is now.

He braces himself and replies. “No.”

He imagines Jacques rolling his eyes before he says, voice a bit harder, but still carrying from further in the room, “I’m fine.”

Frank grinds his teeth for a moment, leaning closer to the door. “I don’t think you are.”

There is silence for a good minute, then Frank can hear shuffling inside the room, and seconds later the lock clicks. Jacques opens the door a couple of inches, enough for Frank to see his face, and croaks. “See? I’m fine.”

He is most definitely not. He is pale as a sheet, forehead glistening with a light sheen of sweat, swaying on his feet, and most alarmingly, there is dried blood on his jaw.

Frank must have looked appalled, because Jacques instantly goes to shut the door again, and he would have succeeded if Frank’s right foot hadn’t moved on its own accord, jamming itself between the door and the doorframe. He pushes his shoulder against the door a bit too hard, causing Jacques to stumble backwards as it swings open.

The room is lit only by a single bedside lamp, the curtains closed against the setting sun. Even so, Frank’s eyes don’t take long to get used to the dim light once he enters, and as he takes in the space his stomach sinks. The sheets on the queen-sized bed are stained dark red in several places, so is the one of the armchairs, and the air smells strongly of blood and, confusingly, various kinds of alcohol.

Jacques, having had to retreat once Frank forced his way inside, stands in the middle of the mess, looking equally annoyed and angered, which is impressive, considering the fact that he also looks close to collapsing. “Frank...” he begins, taking a small step towards him. “I don’t need help.” The statement happens to come just as he puts his weight on his right leg, and it buckles under him.

He would have fallen if Frank hadn’t swooped forward and caught him. The position is awkward and his hold is precarious, Jacques’ thin frame surprisingly heavy in Frank’s arms. It doesn’t help that Jacques immediately starts struggling feebly to get back to his feet and away from him. He smells vaguely like the hotel’s soap, but mostly of sweat and gin. Frank holds on until he stops fighting, then he carefully leads them backwards until he can lower Jacques onto the edge of the bed.

“Show me,” he demands.

Jacques doesn’t need further elaboration. He glares halfheartedly at Frank for a few moments, then he uses his left leg as leverage to lift his hips off the bed, shoving his pants down until they pool around his ankles.

The bandage around his upper thigh is comprised of strips of the hotel’s sheets, torn by hand, and fresh blood is seeping through, a stark red against the white fabric.

“Those were Egyptian cotton,” Frank says, because it’s the second thought that occurs to him, right after ‘fuck’.

Jacques snorts and then, seemingly surprised by his own reaction, lets out a genuine chuckle, strained as it may be. “Apologies. I will pay for their replacement.”

If he hadn’t been the one to bring it up in the first place, Frank would have admonished him for the flippancy of that comment. “What happened?”

“I got stabbed.”

“By who?”

Jacques sighs. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Why are you here? Why aren’t you back at headquarters?”

Despite the blood loss, Jacques’ cheeks manage to turn red. “It’s... complicated. This is the safest place I could think of, as things currently stand.”

“You need help,” Frank needlessly points out.

Jacques gives him a level look. His eyes are glassy. “Fine. Then you’ll help me.”

Frank glares at him in turn. “I’m not at all in a position to-...”

“Please, Frank.”

That one was somewhat unexpected. Jacques has never directly requested his assistance before, not like this. There’s genuine emotion in the words too, close enough to pleading to make Frank’s throat tighten, and the rest of his protest dies before it is uttered. “All right,” he says, voice sounding foreign to his own ears. “I need to see the wound. Get up, we’ll move to the bathroom, the light is better.”

‘Get up’ might have been a really stupid demand to make of a man with a stab wound in the thigh, but Jacques complies nonetheless, waving Frank away and stubbornly limping into the bathroom while leaning on the wall.

It proves to be an even bigger mess than the room. There are bloodstained towels on the floor and streaks of red on the sink and along the edge of the tub. Frank has no idea how any of this will be cleaned up without word spreading through the hotel of something terrible having happened in room 070. He supposes he will have to do it himself.

Jacques sits down on the toilet and Frank kneels on the floor in front of him, hands going for the makeshift bandage, meticulously unwrapping it and peeling it away, trying to ignore the way Jacques hisses in pain when he does.

It’s not a terribly large wound, an inch and a half long maybe, no telling how deep, but it doesn’t look good. The skin around it is bright red, it is still leaking blood, and most disturbingly, it has been stitched haphazardly closed by what looks like...

“Sewing thread?!” Frank asks, outraged.

“Your complimentary sewing kits didn’t contain anything better,” Jacques says, obviously aiming for ‘joking’, but unable to reach due to the discomfort in his voice.

“How the fuck did you manage to sew this shut with regular sewing thread?”

“Gin,” Jacques replies, “is a helpful painkiller. Just as vodka is a decent disinfectant.”

Frank struggles to keep from lashing out at the sheer stupidity of Jacques’ approach to first aid. “I don’t suppose I need to ask if you emptied the minibar already.”

“I did.”

“And look what good it did you,” Frank says, gesturing at the wound. “It’s already infected.”

Jacques frowns, leaning forward to peer at his thigh. “It is?”

Frank rolls his eyes. “Did you pay any attention during our very basic medical training?”

Jacques has the decency to look embarrassed. “Not a lot.”

There’s no point in getting angry, it won’t help, so Frank quashes the feeling. “We need to open the wound again, clean it properly, stich it properly, bandage it properly, and get you some antibiotics.”

“You can fix all that?” Jacques asks.

“Yes,” Frank lies. “I’ll be right back.”

He doesn’t exactly run back to the nearest supply room that contains a big first aid kit, because he never runs anywhere, but if anybody who knows him were to be watching, they’d certainly describe it as ‘rushing’.

He is rummaging through the kit to determine its contents when he hears Ernest’s voice sounds out behind him, “Is it bad?”

Frank does not jump in surprise. It’s more like an involuntary jerk. Which is bad enough. He normally never, ever, lets Ernest sneak up on him like that.

To his credit, Ernest doesn’t comment on his reaction, nor does he look smug when Frank turns to scowl at him. As a matter of fact, he looks mildly concerned.

Judging it sincere, Frank finds himself being mostly honest about the situation. “It’s... not entirely good.” He quickly adds, “I have it under control.”

Ernest purses his lips. “Right. Well, let me know if you need help.”

Frank frowns. “What is that supposed to mean?”

His brother closes his eyes briefly, obviously stifling a heavy sigh. “It means exactly what I said.”

“Why on earth would you care about what’s going on with Jacques?” Frank asks.

“I don’t, not particularly. But you do.”

Frank is about to object, even though any denial would be a flagrant lie, but Ernest holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “Just saying. If you need anything.”

The first aid kit has paracetamol, but… “I need antibiotics,” Frank says, hating himself for asking. “And strong painkillers.”

Ernest nods, a simple confirmation of Frank’s request, rather than the satisfied nod of someone who has just won the argument in a major way. “I will get some. Give me ten minutes.”

Normal people would say ‘thank you’ at this point, but Frank is too careful, too deep in his natural cynicism, to make such a concession. Instead, he merely nods as well, and watches with some trepidation as Ernest turns on his heel and walks away.

He returns to room 070 at a more sedate pace, finding to his relief that Jacques hasn’t moved an inch. Frank shrugs out of his suit jacket, throws it onto the counter, puts on a pair of surgical gloves from the first aid kit, and is halfway through laying out implements on a clean piece of gauze on the edge of the bathtub when there is a brief knock on the door to the room. Every muscle in Jacques’ body tenses in an instant, and he is looking as ready for a fight as a man in his state can be.

“It’s okay,” Frank says. “It’s just Ernest.”

Jacques looks outraged. “Just Ernest?”

Frank barely glances up from his task. “While your unflinching loyalty to our organization is admirable, we need outside assistance in this case.” He figures that letting Jacques know about his own reservations regarding the acceptance of Ernest’s help won’t lead to Jacques feeling more at ease, so he makes sure to sound like this is perfectly normal and reasonable. “Wait here.”

He finds a tray on the floor outside the door, covered with a cloth napkin from the Indian restaurant. Ernest is nowhere to be seen, so Frank quickly picks up the tray, and kicks the door shut behind him, making sure to listen for the click of the lock.

Jacques is looking very unhappy when he returns, but when Frank removes the napkin and reveals, among boxes of antibiotics, a phial of morphine, a syringe, and several hypodermic needles still in their plastic packaging, he seems to deflate a little. The prospect of pain relief obviously trumps his need to appear too noble to receive Ernest’s help.

Frank remembers all too well how to administer morphine and in what quantities, and when he sees it working, sees Jacques automatically relaxing for the first time since Frank forced himself into the room, he feels a weight being lifted off his shoulders. It makes it easier to get to work - painstakingly cutting and pulling out Jacques’ crudely made stiches, cleaning the wound, and then sewing it shut with actual medical thread. At no point does Jacques make even the slightest sound. By the time he is done, Frank is sweating, but he hasn’t made a single mistake, as far as he can tell. The stitches are very, very neat, and the bleeding has stopped.

“I think that will do.”

“It looks great,” Jacques agrees, voice thick.

Frank snorts. “It couldn’t possibly look worse than it did when I started.”

“Hey!” Jacques protests. “Have you ever tried sewing up your own wound while drunk? It’s not easy.”

“Which is why you should have asked for help to begin with,” Frank points out. He reaches for the disinfectant and cleans a large area around the wound, before covering it with a clean bandage, which he fastens with elastic gauze. “We need to keep it clean and dry.”

“‘We’?” Jacques echoes.

“I’m not trusting you with this,” Frank says plainly. “You’ve already proven yourself woefully unequipped to take care of yourself.” He picks up a bottle of antibiotics and reads the label. It is prescribed to Ernest, and the dosage is quite high. He pops the lid and gives Jacques a couple of pills, along with some paracetamol, then gets to his feet to grab a glass of water. His knees are aching, but he does his best to appear unaffected.

Once Jacques has swallowed down his pills, Frank helps him to his feet as well. He still cannot put much weight on his leg, despite the morphine flowing through his veins, so he leans heavily on Frank as he guides him back into the hotel room proper. Unwilling to let him sleep in the mess he has made of the bed, Frank installs Jacques in one of the armchairs and goes to the nearest linen room out in the hall to find clean sheets.

Frank isn’t nearly as fast or as good at changing bedlinens as their housekeepers, but he manages in due time. When he turns back to Jacques, he finds the other man in the process of unbuttoning his shirt. Frank definitely does not stare at the pale skin being revealed, but he does note that Jacques is more muscular than he had imagined, which explains why he was so unexpectedly heavy to move around.

“I don’t suppose you could launder this discreetly?” Jacques asks, completely oblivious to Frank’s improper attention.

Frank scrunches up his nose. “I can burn it, and the sheets, and get you something new.”

Jacques sighs. “If you insist. Hey, Frank?”

“Yeah?”

“Please don’t tell anyone I’m here.”

He says it with such intensity, Frank is a little taken aback. “I have to tell our-”

“Please,” Jacques repeats. “Just... let me stay for a little bit without sharing my whereabouts with our superiors. You’ll do that for me, won’t you?”

It makes no sense. Jacques is the most noble and loyal volunteer in their organization, he follows protocol like his life depends on it, why is he being so secretive right now? The only possible explanation is that he doesn’t want their superiors to know he was hurt during whatever mission he was on. But why?

“What about your siblings?”

“Not them either.”

More and more disturbing. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“I’d rather not. Not yet.” He eyes the bed with no small amount of longing. “Can you-...”

Deciding that Jacques has asked for help enough times for one day, Frank provides it with no further prompting. Once Jacques is back in bed, he starts gathering the bloody sheets into a pile, along with Jacques’ ruined clothes. Then he cleans up in the bathroom, including a cursory wiping of the various surfaces. By the time he returns, Jacques has fallen asleep. It’s a relief, seeing his face slack and free of pain, his naked chest rising and falling steadily, and Frank stands at the bed for several seconds before he realizes how creepy he is being, and goes to find a laundry cart to transport sheets and clothes down to the incinerator.

***

He has gotten rid of the incriminating evidence and made his way back to his office just before the midnight. He finds Ernest perched on the edge of his desk, delicately sipping a cup of tea. “Well?”

Frank tilts his chin up. “You don’t care.”

“Obviously. We’ve already established that.”

“In that case, you won’t mind telling me everything you know.”

“Ah,” Ernest says, putting the cup down dangerously close to the paperwork Frank abandoned earlier. “That’s not the same thing.”

Frank makes a frustrated noise. “Look, I’m not trying to make you compromise your position or whatever, I just need to know if he’s still in danger.”

Ernest tilts his head. “Oh. No, not as far as I’m aware. It was an unfortunate confrontation that should never have happened, not a deliberate attempt at his life.”

“And why did he not return to the mountains?”

Ernest’s right eyebrow arches smoothly even as his neck straightens. “He wouldn’t tell you, huh?”

“No,” Frank grumbles. “Do you know?”

“I don’t. Truly. But I’m sure you’ve been thinking up theories in that clever head of yours.”

The mockery that Frank would be able to ignore on any other day hits too hard in his current state, and he sneers, “Fuck off, Ernest.”

Ernest blinks, the expression on his face hardening as he squares his shoulders to appear larger, more imposing. “I guess gratitude is off the table.”

He knows he should be thankful for Ernest’s help, despite still doubting his underlying motivations. But he is tired, and anxious, and completely unsure how to proceed. He’s not used to going behind the VFD’s collective back, at least not with something as important as severe injury to a fellow volunteer. “I’m...” he trails off.

“We both know you’re not about to actually apologize, but I will pretend that you did,” Ernest says, relaxing his stance. “If I may make a suggestion?”

Frank waves a hand at him to signal his willingness to listen.

“If you want to keep him hidden, you need to talk to the staff first thing tomorrow morning. Do that glaring thing you do; they’ll keep quiet after that.”

Frank does glare at him then, but Ernest only smiles. “Yes, like that. But first things first.” He gives Frank a meaningful look. “You need to strike his name from the records.”

There’s something inherently insulting about the fact that Ernest thinks this will be a major hurdle for him, that his adherence to order and properly filled out paperwork will make it difficult for him to doctor some documents.

... Damn it, he is not entirely wrong. It’s the principle of the thing. It’s forgery. Hotel managers don’t commit forgery.

The clock choses that moment to strike midnight, the incessant chanting of Wrong! echoing through the lobby and into the office.

Right.

But he will damned if he lets Ernest know, so he circles the desk and finds the relevant sheet of paper. While Ernest loudly slurps his tea, Frank uses a black marker to strike out Jacques’ name and all other information recorded.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Ernest teases. Before Frank has the opportunity to say something caustic, he adds, “Of course Dewey already has a copy of yesterday’s check-in sheets. Although I doubt he ever reads them.”

Frank’s jaw tightens while Ernest smiles serenely at him.

“So I guess you will have to let Dewey in on this little scheme of yours, unless you want to go down there and riffle through his records in the dead of night.”

He knows Frank would never do that, no matter how much he hates the idea of expanding the circle of people who know about this whole mess of a situation.

“I’m sure Dewey will be understanding of your predicament,” Ernest concludes. “He’s soft-hearted, after all.”

That he is, but that doesn’t mean it will be easy to make convince him that this is the right thing to do. Frank rubs briefly at his left temple, where a headache is starting to take hold, then nods. “He’ll still be up.”

“Probably,” Ernest agrees and finished his tea in one long sip, before saying, “You might want to change your shirt first though. The cuffs are bloody.”

Frank curses under his breath when he confirms that they are indeed both stained with Jacques’ blood. How did he not notice this earlier? What is someone had seen him and noticed, a staff member, or God forbid, a guest? There would have been no way to keep that under wraps, a manager walking around with bloodstained clothes. What an incredibly basic mistake to make. He unbuttons each cuff and shoves them far enough up his arms for the jacket to cover them, preparing to leave without giving Ernest additional time to be clever.

“Good luck,” Ernest chirps. “See you in the morning.”

He already told him to fuck off once, so Frank settles on rolling his eyes and stalking down the hall to his room and a clean change of clothes.

***

Dewey is still awake, as they had expected, sitting by one of the many desks placed throughout the library and making notes in the margin of a page containing what looks to be a mission log. Similar pages are spread out all across the surface of the desk, some with notes, some without. When Frank draws near, Dewey’s head jerks up. He looks momentarily startled, but then it’s gone, replaced by pleasant surprise.

“Frank,” he says. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

“I have a favor to ask,” Frank replies, because he sees no need to beat around the bush. “I need to make corrections to your copy of yesterday’s check-in sheet. Would you mind telling me where I can find it?”

Dewey frowns ever so slightly. “Why would you need to do that? Did someone make a mistake?”

“Not as such,” Frank says. He pauses, wondering how best to put it, and settling for honesty. “Jacques Snicket checked in yesterday. I need to make it look like he didn’t.”

That gets Dewey’s undivided attention. “Jacques is here?”

“Yes.”

“And why don’t you want the records to show that?”

“Because he asked me to keep it secret.”

The weight of Dewey’s gaze is growing uncomfortably heavy. “Why?”

Frank wishes he had a better explanation, but he is left with the truth. “I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me.”

Dewey’s frown deepens. “Isn’t that a bit... suspicious?”

“It’s very suspicious,” Frank agrees. “But it’s what he wants.”

For a brief second, he is actually unsure what Dewey will say, what with his severe expression and his hands coming to fold together in front of him on the desk, like their disapproving headmaster from their time at school. But then his shoulders slump a little and he says, “All right. I’ll fix it for you.”

Frank lets out a breath that he hadn’t realized he was quietly holding. “Thank you.”

Dewey waves a hand dismissively. “I trust you. And you seem to trust Jacques.”

It’s difficult to say whether he does or not, but his actions sure point in that direction. “I’m sure there’s a… reasonable explanation.”

“I’m sure there is,” Dewey agrees.

Frank is already in the elevator when he realizes that he never told Dewey that Jacques is injured. That fact would surely have changed the course of the conversation, and Dewey is sure to find out somehow. He will be upset that Frank left out that considerable detail. He probably won’t go back on his word to keep Jacques’ presence at the hotel a secret, but their relationship will be strained for a while. Is Jacques worth that?

Yes, Frank decides. He is.

***

He is in the middle of cleaning the blood stains out of one of the chairs in the room when he hears Jacques stir on the bed. He keeps his focus on the sullied cotton upholstery while Jacques gets his bearings, eventually noticing him.

“Frank.”

He hums in confirmation, and pours more rubbing alcohol on a clean cloth, the fifth one he has used today.

“What time is it?” Jacques asks. His voice is thick with sleep, and, more concerning, pain.

“A bit past nine.” Frank puts the cloth down in the pile of already used ones and gets to his feet. “I decided to let you sleep. I’m afraid your tea has gotten cold in the meantime.”

Jacques doesn’t look terribly upset by that. He does however look pretty unwell, now that Frank takes a closer look at him instead of the bloody furniture. “I don’t feel good,” he confesses, just as Frank takes a step towards him.

“You wouldn’t,” Frank says. He stops by edge of the bed and touches the back of his hand to Jacques´ forehead. He isn’t burning up, but he definitely has a fever. Frank tries his best not to look worried. “Hold on.”

Another dose of morphine, another dose of antibiotics, another dose of paracetamol. “I’ll get you some fresh tea,” he says, propping Jacques up with all the pillows on the bed. “And some food. Taking these on an empty stomach isn’t ideal.”

“Sure,” Jacques agrees, but his eyes are noticeably unfocused, so Frank guesses that he would have agreed to almost anything.

Getting some black tea into him proves easy enough, although Frank is forced to insist on the assortment of fruit he had housekeeping bring to the room being eaten as well. He knows morphine makes you nauseous, but Jacques needs to eat something to keep his body going.

“I never figured you would be such a strict nurse,” Jacques quips while swallowing down a raspberry. The humor is somewhat offset by the way he slurs his words.

“You’re awfully chipper for a man who would be dying from a simple stab wound if it weren’t for me,” Frank replies drily.

Jacques snorts. “I would have made it.”

“Yes, do keep telling yourself that.”

There’s a sudden severity to Jacques’ face when he says, “I’m not ungrateful.”

Torn between ‘I didn’t think you were’ and ‘but you sound like it right now’, Frank settles on a neutral, “I know.”

He waits until Jacques has dozed off again to resume his work on getting blood out of the chair.

***

Frank decides that there’s something inherently troubling about his desire to stay in the room at all times, even while Jacques sleeps. It’s just that... well, he doesn’t like the idea of Jacques waking up alone and in pain, with no one to help him.

Still, he forces himself to leave and perform his professional duties around the hotel, although he realizes that he is underperforming in a big way. He is distracted, and objectively, he understands why.

When he discovers by the end of the night that Ernest has been doing his standard paperwork for him, he is simultaneously annoyed and relieved. But as infuriating his brother’s interference is, it still means he is able to return to check on Jacques by the end of the night, and for that he is, however grudgingly, grateful. Not that he will ever admit this. It is just that, well, Jacques really needs a bath.

***

“I can bathe myself.”

Frank raises an eyebrow, quietly encouraging Jacques to try it.

He does, and he makes is to his feet and two steps towards the bathroom before he starts swaying. Frank wordlessly closes the distance between them, catching Jacques around the waist before he topples over.

“That was on purpose,” Jacques claims.

“Why on earth would you almost fall over on purpose?” Frank asks sardonically, draping Jacques’ arm over his shoulders and leading him across the room.

“Maybe I like it when you hold me close,” Jacques says easily, the words themselves markedly more flirtatious than his actual tone.

Nonetheless, Frank almost drops him.

Jacques chuckles at the reaction. “I’m just messing with you.”

“Obviously,” Frank agrees, willing himself to not do or say anything else as they make it to the bathroom. He lowers Jacques down to the edge of the tub, shrugs out of his jacket, rolls up his sleeves, and then turns on the faucet. He holds his wrist under the spray, checking the temperature, and then adds some of the mild soap he brought along. He feels Jacques’ eyes on him the entire time, but pointedly ignores him, just like he ignores the fact that Jacques is mostly naked, and Frank is very close to him. He is a trained volunteer, he reminds himself, as he kneels in front of Jacques and removes his bandage.

The wound looks better. It’s still red around the edges, the surrounding flesh a bit swollen, but there are no visible signs of infection so severe that the antibiotics he’s on won’t take care of it.

“What’s the verdict, doctor?” Jacques asks playfully.

Frank ignores the joking attitude. “You’ll be fine. Eventually.”

He can sense Jacques smiling at him, even as he deliberately keeps his eyes on his wounded thigh. Jacques has nice thighs, he notes for the first time, and immediately feels bad for unintentionally making such a lewd observation about a wounded colleague. The tub is full by now and he turns to water off, happy to have something to do with his hands.

“I can handle it from here,” Jacques assures him, and starts wiggling out of his underwear.

Frank, suddenly finding himself awfully close to Jacques’ soon-to-be exposed genitals, gets back to his feet a bit too quickly and almost loses his balance. There are two ways to read that reaction, he realizes, rampant homophobia or... whatever he is currently feeling. Cautious attraction?

Jacques obviously decides on the second explanation, because he smirks slightly. Pumped up on painkillers and still perceptive as hell, it would be almost impressive if it wasn’t so infuriating.

Frank has to resist the urge to help him into the tub as he watches Jacques struggle awkwardly to do it himself, but Jacques did insist he could to do it. And he does manage, it just takes a couple of seconds where he precariously balances on his good leg as he lifts the bad one over the edge, something that obviously causes him discomfort. When he finally lowers himself into the water, he lets out a long, relieved groan, and Frank has to consciously stop himself from imagining other situations where Jacques might make a sound like that.

Jacques has closed his eyes and arched his head back to rest it on the edge of the tub. Frank tries not to stare at his exposed throat, still smooth, despite a light stubble starting to form on his jaw - he will have to bring him a shaving kit tomorrow. After a few seconds, Jacques cracks open one eye and gives Frank a small smile. “Can you change the sheets, by any chance?”

Taking the opportunity to flee with his dignity kind of intact, Frank leaves the bathroom immediately and starts to do just that. Keeping Jacques’ bed clean is obviously vital to his continued improvement, he tells himself, and makes a deliberate effort to block out the sound of splashing water as Jacques washes in the other room. Cleanliness during healing, they were all taught, is paramount, which is also why he also brought a clean night-shirt and soft pants for Jacques to wear. Frank hopes to avoid a comment on how he has been watching Jacques close enough to gauge his clothes size.

“Frank?”

He tears himself away from his inner fretting. “Yes?”

“I... might need some help getting out.”

That is no doubt true. But it also means Frank has to handle a wet, naked Jacques. God, he is being pathetic, he decides, and strolls into the bathroom with all the confidence as he can muster.

Jacques is already sitting up in the tub when Frank enters the bathroom, and he has got a weirdly devious look on his face, like this is part of an elaborate scheme that is coming to fruition just as he has planned it. He holds up a hand.

Frank decides that the best approach will have to be professional indifference, so he grabs Jacques’ hand and pulls carefully, staring intently at the other man’s face and nowhere else as he manages to get up, with Frank’s help. Jacques takes a couple of seconds to simply stand still, and Frank’s urge to look down and see the glistening, soapy water slide down his body is almost too overwhelming. ‘Almost’ being to key word. His eyes remain fixed on Jacques’ face, allowing him to take in the shift from what appears to be slight frustration to a small smile. He’s impressed, despite it all. If Frank didn’t know any better, he’d... no. Better not think like that.

He turns and picks up a towel, handing it to Jacques. “I left you something to wear on the bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Now there’s definite disappointment in Jacques’ eyes. “Ah. Well, yes. Goodnight, Frank. And thank you.”

***

A couple of days of healthy doses of various prescription drugs, and Jacques starts to get better, slowly but surely. And as his physical condition improves, his general mood starts souring. It’s clear that he isn’t used to be confined to a single room, much less bedrest. Frank brings him books from the library, all of which he reads through at a truly astounding pace. If he could, he would probably be pacing the room like a caged animal, but he is at least smart enough to stay off his feet for a bit longer. At least Frank hasn’t caught him randomly walking around yet, and he has taken to simply knocking and then entering without waiting for a response, so he has had every opportunity to catch Jacques doing something that will compromise his recovery.

It’s not that Jacques bitches at him, his frustration isn’t so much aimed at Frank as it is aimed at the universe in general. But he has toned down the flirtatious comments, and although Frank did find them troubling at times (what with Jacques obviously being in a compromised state due to the amount of morphine he was on), he finds that he sort of misses it.

Jacques seems at his best when Frank stops by with food, and lingers while he eats, the two of them chatting about whatever Jacques has been reading. Most of the time Frank can’t even remember what the book was about, he doesn’t read much for pleasure these days, but listening to Jacques launch into a long analysis of character motivations or themes is strangely reassuring.

He seems at his worst when Frank ultimately leaves him, and Frank hates that he doesn’t have a choice.

Because there is still a hotel to run, and the paperwork he usually handles has been piling up. He knows Ernest has been working overtime to attempt to keep everything running smoothly, but Frank’s absence is being felt. Hell, Dewey has been filling in for him a few times, until Frank found out and promptly told him to go back to doing his own, equally important work. Well, almost as important. Making sure their staff gets paid is pretty damn important as well, so tonight Frank is focusing on that, while Ernest drinks tea and goes over the notes from the concierge’s desk.

Obviously, when Ernest is involved, the silence doesn’t last. “I don’t suppose you have a plan for if another journalist shows up,” his brother says with practiced neutrality.

Frank doesn’t look up from his work. “Meaning?”

“Well, room 070 is empty, according to our records.”

“I’m sure we can find some other room for any potential journalists that may come along,” he says, dotting an i and crossing a t. “Depending on their country of origin.”

Ernest makes a sound that could mean anything from ‘good point’ to ‘you’re an idiot’ and after a long pause, asks “How is he doing?”

Frank briefly stops writing. “Better.”

“That’s a relief,” Ernest says.

Frank looks up at him for the first time during their conversation. “Why do you ask?”

Ernest smiles lopsidedly. “His improved physical health ought to lead to your improved mental health. And some freeing up of your time. It’s tedious, you know, having to do the work for the both of us, because you’re either busy playing nurse, or too cranky to be handling guests.” He pauses, just long enough for Frank to think he is done, but he is not that lucky. “Why are you cranky, by the way? If he is getting better?”

“I’m not cranky.”

Ernest heaves a sigh. “Right. Okay. Agitated then.”

Frank debates whether to tell him, whether Jacques would prefer him to keep everything about his current condition a secret, not just when it comes to the VFD, but Frank’s brothers as well. He settles on being vague. “He is growing a bit... irritable.”

“Yes, well, being cooped up like that would frustrate most people, especially if they’re used to running free, like a cow in a meadow.”

Frank gives Ernest a dubious look. “That’s a very weird simile.”

“Is it?” Ernest asks. He’s smiling like he knows something Frank does not. “I thought it was fitting.”

Deciding that he prefers not to know, Frank turns his attention back to writing out paychecks, ignoring the way he can clearly sense Ernest’s disappointment at being ignored when he so clearly has a story to tell. Eventually Ernest mutters something inaudible under his breath and returns his attention to his own work.

Frank makes a mental note to ask Dewey if he knows what Jacques has in common with a cow, because he is definitely not going to ask Jacques directly.

He gets exactly 18 minutes of peace and quiet before Ernest asks, “How about you just spend more time with him then? If he’s that bored.”

Frank looks at his brother, incredulous. “And who is supposed to take over my duties in the meantime?”

Ernest lifts his chin. He’s offended, that much is clear. “I think Dewey and I can manage for a bit.”

“Dewey should not-”

“You’ve misspelled Anne Levy’s name on her paycheck,” Ernest interrupts. “It’s Anne with an E, and Levy with a Y.”

Frank glances down. He has indeed made out the check to ‘Ann Levi’.

“I’m sure a bank teller who knows her will overlook it, but what if it’s someone new? She might not be getting paid on time, what if she has to pay rent on time, what if-...”

“Yes, you’ve made your point,” Frank says through clenched teeth.

“Great,” Ernest replies, strolling over to the door and opening it. “He’s agreeing.”

Dewey slips inside with his usual grace. “Thank goodness.”

Frank scowls at them. They know how much he hates all three of them being in the same place, especially somewhere were anyone could walk in and ruin the illusion they’ve worked so hard to maintain. “You shouldn’t-…”

Ernest cuts him off again. “Dewey, you know how to spell, right?”

Dewey snorts, amused. “Obviously?”

“Well then,” Ernest says, clasping his hands behind his back. “I do believe there’s work to be done.”

Frank closes his eyes and counts to ten. When he opens them again, Dewey is looking at him expectantly. It’s clear that he’s after more than just the desk.

“I, uh... should have told you immediately. About Jacques’... condition.”

“You should have,” Dewey agrees. “Kind of an asshole move to leave out a detail like that.”

Frank doesn’t like it when Dewey calls him an asshole. Ernest, sure, he does it a lot, but Dewey? It stings when it’s coming from him.

His discomfort must have shown on his face, because Dewey’s expression softens. “It’s fine. We’re fine.”

Frank nods. “Thank you.”

Dewey reaches inside his suit jacket and pulls out a slim book from his inner pocket. “Here, you can drop this off with Jacques. I do believe it’s one of his favorites.”

Frank accepts the book. Maurice, by E.M. Forster. He has a vague recollection of what it’s about, despite never having read it. “I’ll make sure he gets it.”

It’s utterly embarrassing, being unceremoniously shooed out of his own chair, but he isn’t being given much of a choice. By the time he has reached the door, Dewey has already taken over his desk and is starting to rearrange papers and files to his liking, which is enough to make Frank twitch. His system and Dewey’s system are very, very different.

“We will take it from here,” Dewey says, picking up Frank’s pen. “See you later.”

Frank leaves, grumbling curses under his breath.

***

Come mid-morning, Jacques has finished the book. He is sitting on the edge of the bed, waving it around, open somewhere in the middle, animatedly talking while Frank kneels in front of him, changing his bandage.

“So you see, it’s not just about self-realization, growth, and coming to terms with your sexuality and place in the world. Sure, it’s a story of an emotional and sexual awakening, but there’s so many layers. It’s also about class, how the rigid structures of Edwardian society forced you to hide your innermost truths to fit in. Maurice’s privileged position in the world is what is holding him back to begin with, even if he isn’t as high class as Clive.”

“His Cambridge friend,” Frank says, mostly as a reminder to himself. Jacques’ wound is looking much better, which is honestly his main concern in this moment.

“Yes. Clive, who by the way is living in a manor house that is literally falling apart, clings to his family lineage, and the status that comes with it, even though it means denying who he is and refusing Maurice’s love again and again. The leaking roof is such a good metaphor.”

Frank makes a noncommittal sound. He’s sure it is.

“The freedom Maurice finds when he’s with Alec, repeatedly symbolized by the greenwood, is so profound. Here is this simple groundskeeper, and he’s able to live and love in a way that Maurice never thought possible. The way he can be himself with Alec.” His tone changes as he shifts to what must be a quote, “‘I have shared with Alec. All I have.’” He sighs, almost dreamily. “It’s just so incredibly beautiful.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Frank says. He fastens the new bandage.

“Did you know this book is where the line ‘I am an unspeakable of the Oscar Wilde sort’ comes from?” Jacques asks.

“I did not.”

“You should read it,” Jacques insists. “It’s exceptional.”

He must know that Frank rarely, if ever, has the time to read books, anything else would take an uncharacteristic level of ignorance. Still, Frank shrugs. “Sure.”

Jacques sighs. “Okay, just listen to this one quote then.” He flips through the pages to a point right by the end. “At the end, Maurice has decided to be with Alec, and he’s confronting Clive about it. Clive is disgusted and Maurice tells him;” Jacques’ voice takes on a serious edge as he starts reading, “‘You do care a little for me, I know... but nothing to speak of, and you don't love me. I was yours once till death if you'd cared to keep me, but I'm someone else's now... and he's mine in a way that shocks you, but why don't you stop being shocked, and attend to your own happiness.’” He snaps the book shut dramatically.

Frank looks up at Jacques, who is clearly waiting for a reaction. “That’s beautifully written,” Frank concedes. “Very powerful.”

Jacques’ face breaks into a smile. “Isn’t it just?” When Frank gets to his feet, he hands him the book. “For when you have the time.”

Deciding to indulge him, Frank accepts the book. “What would you like for lunch?”

***

It’s unclear whether Jacques has noticed that Frank is spending more time with him, at least he hasn’t commented on it. His mood has brightened considerably though, which is reassuring. Frank finds that he likes it a lot, too.

Baths come and go. The bandage is changed. Food is eaten and tea drunk, all while talking about whatever they fancy that day. Frank lingers for at least an hour after every meal by now. The subtle flirting comes in waves, but when Frank doesn’t respond outright, it subsides again. The routine becomes one that Frank is quite happy with.

Jacques has been at the hotel for ten days when it all comes to a head anyway. He is practicing walking back and forth across the floor, with Frank provides a steadying hand, when he suddenly stops and turns to face him. “Can I ask you something?”

Frank frowns. “Yes?”

“Are you attracted to me?”

It takes all the willpower earned from half a lifetime of working in customer service for Frank to not react by sputtering denials and excuses. Instead his voice is perfectly neutral when he counters the question with “Why do you ask?”

Jacques groans dramatically and carefully walks over to sit on the edge of his bed. “I realize that I’ve been a nuisance in several different ways and – no” he says sharply as Frank moves to object. “I have. And I was too forward in the beginning. I would blame the drugs, but that would be a lie.” He looks up at Frank with an intensity that cannot be ignored. “I need you to either tell me to fuck off, or fuck me. Please.”

Frank stares at him, painfully away that his face is definitely doing... something. And whatever it is, it’s not making Jacques back off.

“I apologize for my bluntness, I am well aware that you treasure your sense of self-control, and that’s why you haven’t done anything, but I really can’t take it anymore.”

There’s something almost comforting about the bluntness he is apologizing for right now, at least to Frank. No more games, no more double entendres, just a simple question to be answered with a simple yes or no. Now the only problem is that saying ‘no’ would be lying, while saying ‘yes’ would change everything. And Frank doesn’t like change, he likes steady, predictable normality.

Which is why it’s very surprising to him that the word “yes” comes out of his mouth quite automatically.

Jacques looks equally taken aback. “Yes? As in, yes?”

He’s losing control of everything; of his emotions, of his facial expression, of his actions (because damn it all he’s drifting nearer to the bed without meaning to). “I don’t want to–” He pauses, rephrasing it, “I won’t take advantage of this situation. It’s not right.”

Jacques stares up at him. “Are you being serious right now? Like, properly serious?”

Unsure what reaction is most agreeable, Frank just nods.

He didn’t expect Jacques to laugh at him. As a matter of fact, he is so surprised by the sound that it startles him into moving closer still, a certain measure of concern in his voice when he asks, “Jacques?”

“Sorry,” Jacques managed, stifling a further string of giggles in the palm of his hand. “I didn’t mean to. You’re so... proper. It’s simultaneously flattering, insulting, and hilarious.”

Frank can’t help but scowl at him. “Being proper is not a character flaw.”

Jacques’ snickering trails off, but a wry smile remains. “No, you’re right. I like that you’re like that. Most of the time.”

“Most of the time?” Frank asks.

“Right now, I kinda wish you’d throw caution to the wind, to be honest.”

It’s tempting. Too tempting it seems, because Frank finds himself closing the distance between them. Jacques shifts his knees apart and Frank comes to a halt between them. A lesser man might have given him a seductive look then, from this angle it would be very effective to look up at him coquettishly, fluttering eyelashes and whatnot, but Jacques simply looks up at him expectantly. Frank swallows, although his mouth feels too dry already. “Okay.”

The smile Jacques gives him is dazzling. “Okay?” He places a hand on Frank’s abdomen, the pressure of his touch intense even though three layers of fabric.

Frank nods and leans down.

Jacques surges up to meet him, pressing their lips together in a kiss that somehow manages to be simultaneously too much and not nearly enough. Jacques lets out a breathy sound, and Frank’s insides clench in response. The angle is awkward, but before Frank has a chance to ponder how to fix that, Jacques has acted, seizing his tie and tugging firmly while leaning backwards until he’s lying down. Frank almost topples over in his attempt to follow, bracing himself with a knee on the edge of the bed and his hands one either side of Jacques’s head. He blinks, trying to regain his equilibrium, but Jacques doesn’t let him, pulling on his tie again, expectantly.

It's easy, surprisingly easy even, to let himself be lead, to kiss Jacques again, deeper this time, harder. Jacques sighs happily against Frank’s mouth, gasping when Frank sucks hard on his bottom lip. He wiggles further back on the bed and Frank follows again, not breaking the kiss. Jacques’ tongue is as clever in this situation as it is when he’s talking, it’s very distracting. He pulls Frank closer with impatient hands, and Frank obeys, lying down on top of the other man while still being mindful of his injured leg. One of them has to be, and Jacques is obviously too focused on kissing and pawing at Frank’s clothes to pay it any mind.

Undressing while kissing is hard enough, and when you add their position, it’s actually impossible. Jacques obviously comes to the same conclusion, pushing Frank back up into a sitting position, straddling Jacques’s good leg. “I need-”

“Yes.”

They work together as well as they can. Jacques has Frank’s suit jacket unbuttoned in seconds, then turns to his vest while Frank shrugs the jacket off. Jacques finally pulls Frank’s shirt free of his pants and simply shoves his hand up under it, evidently desperate to just touch. Frank chuckles, making a point of slowly loosening his tie before pulling it off. Jacques digs his nails into his side and Frank inhales sharply. “Easy.”

Jacques shakes his head. “No way.”

Getting the distinct impression that his shirt is about to be torn open if he isn’t careful - and being pretty fond of it - Frank unbuttons it as quickly as he can, acutely aware of Jacques’ eyes on him. Any potential self-consciousness is thoroughly alleviated by the heat in Jacques’ gaze, the way he seems to be mapping every inch of Frank’s chest as more skin is exposed. It’s only fair, he supposes. After all, he has seen Jacques naked several times the last ten days, even if the context was very different. He hadn’t realized how different until Jacques sits up and takes off his thin t-shirt. His skin is flushed in a way Frank hasn’t seen before, his stomach muscles tightening as he leans back on his elbows, smiling coyly as Frank pauses to take him in. Yeah, definitely different.

Part of him wants to get up and put his clothes away like a civilized person, but Jacques reaches for him, fingers curling around the back of his neck and pulling him down into another kiss. It’s more even heated than the last ones, wet and desperate, Jacques’ making the most appealing noises as Frank caresses his chest, little moans and shuddering sighs. It really shouldn’t come as a surprise to him when Jacques unceremoniously slides his hand down between them to palm Frank’s crotch, but he still startles.

Jacques hesitates, breaking their kiss. “Is this all right?” he asks.

Frank wants to roll his eyes, but it’s a valid question, his reaction considered. “Yes, it’s very all right.”

Jacques gives him a grin and squeezes. Frank lets out an unbidden noise, hips pressing downwards automatically, rolling along with the steady pressure of Jacques’ hand on his cock, which is moving with confidence. Frank’s sense of control is fraying at the edges, his breathing getting quicker and more shallow as Jacques touches him. He drops down to his elbows, trying to regain focus by kissing Jacques’ neck, but it soon turns to simply panting against his skin. He dimly registers Jacques’ erection pressing against his thigh, a slight rocking of his hips. He’s going to come in his pants like a goddamn teenager if this doesn’t stop, and yet he can’t gather his wits together long enough to do anything about it. Lucky for his pride, Jacques suddenly lets go and saves him the embarrassment. Not that his frustrated growl expresses any gratitude, far from it, but it does make Jacques chuckle.

“Now who’s impatient?”

Frank pulls back and glares at him, still trying to catch his breath, but Jacques is frustratingly unbothered. As a matter of fact, he looks exceptionally pleased with himself as he reaches for Frank’s belt, unbuckling it easily without breaking eye-contact. “I like it,” he assures him. “Proves that you’re human.”

He does roll his eyes this time. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you try your hardest not to be a lot of the time, to hide it all away beneath layers upon layers of professionalism and pride and emotional detachment, and I like knowing that I can-...” he pauses, shrugs. “Break through the façade, I guess.”

Frank doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s not used to being psychoanalyzed while half-naked, in bed with someone he is suddenly acutely aware cares for him more than Frank had dared to imagine. He opens his mouth to reply – something potentially mood-ruining no doubt - but Jacques presses a finger to his lips, urging him to stop. “No. Let’s just... save that for later, all right?”

Seeing as he is unable to come up with a response anyway, Frank nods in silent agreement.

Jacques smiles softly, reaching up to cradle Frank’s jaw, languidly trailing his thumb along his bottom lip. It’s so tender that for a moment it makes Frank want to get up and flee. It’s a relief when Jacques breaks eye contact, looking down at Frank’s mouth instead. A wordless request. Frank can do that.

The kiss that follows is more gentle at first, deepening by slow increments. Jacques’ hands seem to be everywhere, trailing up and down Frank’s back one moment, tugging at his hair the next. Frank can feel his skin tingling everywhere Jacques touches him, even though he knows that’s irrational.

Jacques turns his head slightly to speak. “I would like you to take your pants off now.”

Frank has no objections to that idea. He carefully gets to his feet and push his trousers off his hips along with his underwear. He does feel slightly self-conscious now, with Jacques eyes roaming hungrily over his naked body.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” Jacques breathes, reaching for the edge of his own comfortable sleep pants and managing to shove them down with some difficulty. He isn’t wearing any underwear. Which is pretty damn presumptuous of him, Frank thinks, but he’ll let it slide this once. Which has nothing to do with how good he looks, finally naked, skin flushed and cock fully hard. Totally unrelated.

While Frank gets his socks off, Jacques shuffles backwards until he can rest his head on the pillows. He stretches, obviously doing what he can to show off the attractive litheness of his body. Frank must be visibly affected by the sight, because Jacques looks very pleased with himself as he holds out his hand, beckoning.

Frank complies.

They kiss for a while, Frank still being constantly mindful of Jacques’ bad leg even as he lies partially on top of him, body thrumming with pleasure at the skin-to-skin contact. Jacques is starting to tremble, fingers digging into Frank’s hips and angling him until their cocks are sliding against each other with every rock of their bodies. It feels good, but it’s not enough. Frank moves, getting to his hands and knees, kissing along Jacques’ jaw, then down his neck, the center of his chest. Jacques squirms, breathing quickening as Frank settles between his legs.

It's been a while since he last gave a blowjob, Frank realizes as he strokes Jacques’ cock a couple of times before taking the head into his mouth. It’s not something you forget though, judging from the sound Jacques makes as Frank takes him deep. He tastes nice, Frank concludes as pre-come coats his tongue. He overestimates his skills then, gagging slightly as he tries to fit more in his mouth.

“Careful,” Jacques says as Frank pulls off to cough.

“I’m fine,” Frank says, to which Jacques only hums.

He gets back to the task at hand, being more careful not to get too overconfident again. Jacques’ hand comes to rest on the back of his head, not pressing or guiding, just touching lightly as he moans deep in his chest. It sends a thrill through Frank, knowing he’s capable of bringing Jacques this kind of pleasure. He finds himself cataloging every reaction, the way Jacques’ breath hitches when he presses the flat of his tongue against the underside of his cock, the way his moans get more desperate when Frank sucks harder after simply letting Jacques’ cock slide in and out of his mouth for a bit.

It's his sharp focus on these sounds that makes him pick up on the sudden hiss of pain immediately. He pulls away. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, it’s just the fucking-” he gestures at his leg. “I moved wrong.”

Frank notices how much Jacques’ thighs are trembling then. “You need to relax.”

Jacques lets out a bark of laughter. “How the fuck am I supposed to relax when you’re sucking my brain out through my dick?”

Frank can feel his cheeks burning at the crude compliment. “Try harder.”

Jacques chuckles weakly. “Fine.” He exhales, muscles relaxing a fraction, then completely after a few more breaths-

“Good,” Frank says. He runs his fingertips up Jacques’ thighs. “Very good.”

It’s Jacques’ turn to blush, and Frank definitely makes a note of that before he lowers his head to suck Jacques’ cock into his mouth once more. He decides to help with the plan, keeping a more sedate pace this time, hoping for a slower build. It works, Jacques practically melting into the mattress, whimpering faintly at times but not straining. Frank allows his mind to go pleasantly blank for a bit. His jaw is starting to ache, but he doesn’t mind. As a matter of fact, it’s quite a pleasant sensation. Makes him feel used somehow, but in a good way.

Jacques’ is panting now, and Frank can taste more pre-come leaking from him. It’s making his mouth water automatically, saliva running down the length of Jacques’ cock. The sound of his steady sucking grow wetter, more slurping, until it’s damn-near obscene to listen to.

He likes that too.

It doesn’t take long after that. Jacques’ breathing is heavy and uneven, as he fights the urge to strain, thrust up, anything. Frank grabs his hip, anchoring him.

“Fuck,” Jacques gasps. “I’m gonna-...”

Frank makes as much of an affirmative noise as he can with a dick in his mouth, which seems to be all Jacques needed. He comes seconds later, his seed flooding Frank’s mouth, and the rush of endorphins running through his body must cancel out whatever pain he might feel as every muscle goes taunt, because his moans are thoroughly pleased.

He had managed to forget how to swallow without making a mess, but Frank is nothing if not meticulous. He licks Jacques’ cock clean while the other man tries to get his breathing under control, finally sitting back onto his heels and using his thumb to catch a stray drop on his chin, licking it off.

Jacques watches him, transfixed. “Fucking hell, Frank.”

Frank shrugs, feeling simultaneously accomplished and a little exposed.

As if sensing his sudden awkwardness, Jacques sits out and seizes his wrist, pulling him down towards him. He kisses Frank deeply, as if he’s trying to lick every trace of his sperm from Frank’s tongue. Frank is distracted enough that he only notices Jacques has reached down between them when his fingers wrap around Frank’s cock. He gasps, clutching at the sheets on either side of Jacques’s head. He hadn’t even noticed how hard he still is.

“I wish I could ride you right now,” Jacques murmurs. He twists his wrist, tightening his grip.

Frank lets out a pathetically high-pitched moan, arms starting to shake under the strain of keeping himself from falling on top of Jacques.

“Slow at first,” he continues. His voice his rough still, and it only serves to make his words more intense. “Until you’re desperate for it, grabbing my hips, trying to force me to go faster. I’d make you feel so good, Frank.”

Frank’s mind is conjuring up images without any issue. How Jacques would look above him, slowly riding Frank’s cock, breathing heavily and stroking himself, eyes fixed on Frank’s face. He imagines how it would feel to grab Jacques’ hips and force him down, thrusting up into him, hard, hearing Jacques’ moans as he’s filled again and again.

He wants to say something back, he really does, but Jacques’ touch is unrelenting, and he can’t focus. Lips press against his throat, kissing at first, then sucking hard, teeth digging in. It’s so good, too good, he can’t, he can’t –

His climax hits him hard, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over him as Jacques’ strokes him through it. By the end, when he feels completely drained, his arms finally give out, and his inelegantly flops down onto Jacques. Jacques laughs gently, no trace of mockery, only fondness. Frank rests his forehead against Jacques’ for a while, just breathing, enjoying the closeness and intimacy of the moment.

When he has gathered his wits about him, he rolls off and settles on his back. Jacques follows, throwing his arm across Frank’s stomach and shifting until he’s plastered to Frank’s side, resting his head on Frank’s chest. It's very easy for Frank to wrap his own arm around Jacques’ shoulder and pull the sheets up the cover them. “I should have known you’d be a cuddler,” Frank says, not exactly teasing. Maybe a little.

Jacques snorts. “You like it.” He doesn’t move an inch.

The lie there in silence for a while. Frank is starting to doze off when Jacques suddenly speaks.

“It was Olaf.”

Frank tenses, suddenly wide awake. “Excuse me?”

Jacques hesitates briefly before repeating himself. “It was Olaf who stabbed me.”

Frank sits up in one jerking motion, shrugging Jacques’ arm off his middle. “Why did you want to keep that a secret from the VFD, from everyone?” ‘From me’ remains unsaid.

Jacques sits up as well. He starts nervously picking at the edge of the sheets, which have pooled in his lap, avoiding eye contact. “I didn’t want to risk any unwarranted retaliations.”

“‘Unwarranted’? He stabbed you! Retaliation is pretty damn warranted.”

Jacques’ finally looks at him, his face hardening. “It was an accident. He didn’t mean to hurt me. Not that seriously anyway.”

Frank let out a humorless bark of a laugh. “Oh, so what? He tripped and fell into you knife-first?”

Jacques narrows his eyes in anger. “This is why I didn’t tell you. I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

For a couple of seconds longer Frank is just blissfully confused. But then his mind starts working again, pulling up memories that are normally stored comfortably away. Scenes from their youth, back when things seemed simpler. Frank never liked Olaf, not even a little, but the Snicket siblings did, more or less, at one time or another. Whether it was Lemony and him wreaking social havoc in the theater club, or Kit and him practicing adapting the VFD disguises, or Jacques and him... how many times did Frank hear about the two of them getting detention for sneaking away to smoke under the bleachers? Half a dozen at least. He remembers Olaf hanging on Jacques’ shoulder, drunk at a student party that Frank was only at because Bertrand insisted, his superior height making the sight comical. He remembers Jacques smiling indulgently, blushing when Olaf whispers something in his ear.

“Frank?”

He pulls himself out of his reverie to find Jacques staring at him. His expression must be showing his realization clearly, because Jacques flinches. “It’s not like that, I swear.”

“Oh?” Frank asks. His tone sounds cold even to his own ears. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re covering for an old lover, who, need I remind you, is our enemy!” He didn’t mean to raise his voice, but it happened anyway.

Jacques’ lips curl into a sneer. “It’s none of your fucking business.”

Frank gets up, gathering his clothes and throwing them on in record speed while Jacques watches in silence. As soon as he’s presentable, he turns back to the bed. Jacques hasn’t moved, although his anger seems tempered with sadness now. “I thought you were noble,” Frank says, immediately wishing he hadn’t.

Jacques’ face darkens again. “That was beneath you, Frank.”

It was. But there’s no taking it back, so instead Frank turns and leaves the room without another word.

***

He walks back to his office in somewhat of a daze, his thoughts racing too quickly for him to distinguish any one of them properly. He’s cycling though emotions just as quickly; anger, frustration, betrayal, and then guilt and regret. He shouldn’t have left like that, he shouldn’t have lashed out, Jacques had his reasons, even if Frank disagrees. He may very well have ruined everything.

He sits down in his chair, barely registering Ernest’s approach before he’s standing in front of the desk. When Frank looks up his brother’s head is tilted slightly, a mildly puzzled look on his face. His eyes dart down, fixing on Frank’s throat. Jacques must have left some hickeys, because Ernest’s demeanor changes to something... else. Frank doesn’t usually struggle to read his brother’s expression, but he genuinely isn’t sure what’s he is thinking right now.

“Did you know?”

“That it was Olaf? Yes.”

Frank wants to shout and throw something at the wall, but he doesn’t. Instead he inhales slowly through his nose and on the exhale he schools his own facial expression into the closest approximation of indifference he can manage right now. “Doesn’t matter.”

Ernest shrugs. “Not really, no.”

It... he’s right. It doesn’t matter. What matters is the Jacques isn’t dead, even if it’s thanks to Frank’s help. What matters is that Jacques cares about him, and Frank cares about him, and he just stormed out like a fool.

If he’s going to salvage this, he needs to act immediately. So he does, rising abruptly, making a beeline for the door.

“Where are you going?” Ernest asks, although it’s obvious from his tone that he already knows.

Frank pauses, hand on the doorknob. He thinks for a moment, then looks to Ernest and says, “I’m attending to my happiness.”

He opens the door and exits without looking back, and so he doesn’t see the soft half-smile that appears on Ernest’s face as he leaves.

***

He slips quietly back into room 070. The lights are off, but the curtains are open, bathing the room in moonlight. Frank waits until his eyes have adjusted a little before approaching the bed. He’s not sure what to say, but when Jacques opens his eyes and looks at him, he realizes that he doesn’t have to say anything right now. Very slowly, giving Jacques plenty of time to object, he takes most of his clothes off again and climbs back onto the bed. Jacques lifts the sheets up in invitation. Frank ends up lying on his side, Jacques curled around his back, arm slung around Frank’s middle, fingers idle caressing his stomach. It’s comforting. He can’t remember the last time someone held him like that.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Jacques says. He presses his lips to the nape of Frank’s neck, just a quick peck, but it speaks volumes. “Thank you for saying it.” He pauses. “I care about you a lot, Frank.”

When Frank tries to reply, Jacques cuts him off before he gets even one word out. “No. Just... let’s leave it until morning, okay? When we’re clear-headed.”

He can’t fault Jacques’ logic, especially when he somehow manages to pull Frank even closer to his chest and sighs with contentment. Frank lies awake long after Jacques has fallen asleep, but for once his overly analytical mind is blissfully quiet. He’s here, in bed with Jacques, and they’re warm and safe, so does it really matter how they got here?

Not really, no.

finis

#my fic #frank denouement #jacques snicket #frank x jacques #a series of unfortunate events #asoue

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