Frank Woods x Reader

Thirteen

With a deep sigh, you rubbed some cold water onto your face and threw a glance into the mirror.

Surprised by the sight, you pulled a face.

"Mmm, someone needs sleep...", you dried your face with a towel, hoping it would rub away the deep dark circles underneath your eyes as well. "Nope. Still looking like a corpse. Fantastic."

While fixing the holster to hide some guns underneath your outfit, you pushed the door open and returned to the bedroom.

Woods was still struggling with his suit. Not with the cufflinks tho, but with the tie.

At the sight of his face, distorted with anger, a snort escaped you.

"You want some?", his head snapped around, his raised hand threatening to punch you in the face.

His reaction only made you grin more.

You knew Frank better than anyone and if you knew one thing about him it was that, yes, he did have unsolved anger issues, but you were the last person in this entire world he would actually try and hit.

As an offering of peace, you raised your hands and stepped closer.

"Careful, old man.", you showed him the handguns that dangled under each side of your arm. "I'm armed."

He pulled a face. Every time his mouth moved, the moustache part of his beard did too. It was a bit of a cartoony thing, but something very recognisable about him. That and the fact that he was as hairy as a bear, in all kinds of places.

"You're really getting off on this, aren't you?", he asked and turned back to the mirror to continue fighting with the long strap of fabric that was supposed to turn him into a proper gentlemen.

For a moment, you watched him.

The way his huge hands moved reminded you of old times.

Better times.

Despite them being huge and probably able to break some necks, they had always been nothing but gentle to you.

On good nights, they had stroked your cheek and squeezed your butt in a playful manner, so that you would get annoyed at him and he had a reason to invite you out to eat, to make up for being a pain in the ass.

And on bad nights, his hands resting on your face had been the only thing that had kept you sane.

A deep breath escaped you.

"Why..?", you mumbled, trapped in your own thoughts. "It could have been so good..."

Irritated, he glanced over his shoulder.

"Said something?", he asked.

You blinked. Your gaze jumped up to his face, to find those blue eyes, familiar and soft but with a layer of betrayal shimmering on the surface.

Those damn blue eyes. They still made your heart race like no other pair of eyes.

"Come on...", you reached out but didn't touch him yet.

He raised an eyebrow, but turned to face you.

"You want to strangle me?"

With a huff, you grabbed the tie and adjusted the ends.

He had always been a hopeless case when it came to his fancy appearance. Usually, Mason did his ties, but after you had gotten close to him, the honour had been passed down.

But you through it was strange he couldn't tie a proper tie.

As a top notch CIA agent, it wasn't rare to get invited to dinners and talks at the White House. It was also nothing new that ties and a clean look was mandatory for those occasions.

"Sometimes...", you mumbled, smiling softly. "But... every time I think about it, it makes me sad too."

He let out a sarcastic huff.

"Oh yeah? What could you be sad about?"

"You."

"Ugh. Don't start that again."

Your hands froze.

For a moment, you remained motionless, eyes glued to his neck, a hand resting on his broad chest for support.

The beating of his heart pressed against your palm.

It wasn't hastily, nor slow, not excited neither calm. It seemed to be untouched by your presence.

That was something you envied him for. He managed to be indifferent about your presence while his made your heart beat as if it was still in love with this idiot.

And maybe it was.

Closing your eyes, you took a deep breath in and shook your head.

"I'm not starting anything.", you finally said and looked up at him.

He rolled his eyes and turned his gaze away.

A classic behaviour of his.

He always tried to avoid problems when they didn't go his way. Not looking was his way of trying to get rid of you before things could get out of hand.

"Don't look at me like that.", he hummed, lips pressed into a thin line. "You always look at me like that."

You tilted your head.

"Like what?", you asked, genuinely curious.

It was rare that the old man talked about his feelings. It was even rarer that he talked about the feelings he had for other people.

He sighed, his eyes were still glued to the world outside the window.

"Every time you're disappointed in me or I'm about to disappoint you, you give me this look.", his hands wrapped around yours to give them a push.

You got the hint and let go of him.

"I'm not disappointed in you... not anymore."

"Great. So we can stop talking about you getting sad whenever you think about me. I get it. I've fucked up. But so did you!"

Your eyebrows drew together.

"This wasn't even what I meant.", you groaned. "Shit, every time we have a moment you ruin it with your..."

"Huh? My what? What? Say it!"

"Your you."

His breath hitched, the expression on his face darkened.

He wasn't surprised, not at all. But he was hurt, even if he would have never admitted it.

"Good thing then you're not stuck with me for life.", he shrugged, as if it meant nothing to him, and turned back to the mirror to pretend to fix the tie.

But there was nothing to be fixed.

You had already done it perfectly, just the way he liked it. Not too tight to make him grumpy and uncomfortable but also not loose enough for his restless fingers to pull it open while he adjusted the shirt collar every other second.

It was perfect for him.

And he hated it.