ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS - A Frankie Morales Christmas One Shot
Summary: Frankie is facing the prospect of a lonely Christmas, and this time of year is particularly difficult for him with maintaining his sobriety. He and the Miller brothers go to a bar on Christmas Eve for festive drinks, and perhaps a chance encounter with you might make Frankie believe again in the magic of Christmas.
Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub.)
Word Count: 5.9k
Scoville Smut Rating: None, it's fluff. You're safe.
Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.
Warnings/triggers - None, this is pure Frankie fluff. The only warning is tooth rot from how sweet it is.
NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ. ☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.
If this story isn't for you, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.
Author’s Note: This might be one of my favourite stories in this Christmas story collection. I love writing some angsty fluff for my boys. 🥰 Cameo's from the Miller brothers too.
12 DAYS OF XXX-MAS MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST
Enjoy & Happy Holidays! 🎄🖤
Laughter and festive music spills onto the wet sidewalk from restaurants and bars; a whiff of seasonal spices and cooked meats waft in the air.
Neon lights reflect back into Frankie’s eyes as he traipses alongside Benny and Will, a reserved contemplation etched into his tan features.
Will can't contain his wild excitement about proposing to his long term girlfriend. "I'm gonna pop the question, boys. Right there tomorrow on Christmas morning," he explains as he sidesteps puddles.
“About fuckin’ time!” Benny roars, clapping his big bro on the back, as Frankie hides behind a supportive smile in the shadows of his worn and slightly fraying cap.
“That’s great news,” Frankie says, as he pats his friend’s shoulder affectionately.
“Thanks, Fish.” Will eyes him carefully, noting the tight knot his face has become. “How you doing?”
It’s a daunting prospect, answering a question like that, which feels pretty loaded these days.
Frankie can remember all the times he’s been asked how he’s doing, and all the times he’s lied, convincing everyone that he was, indeed, perfectly fine. A well crafted façade as his life spiralled away from him right under everyone's noses, and the words feel hollower now.
The white, powdery gap has wedged itself in all of his relationships to note. The strain, and shame, of having and carrying the stigma of an addiction - something that he had tried to convince himself he didn't have for too long - has damaged some of those relationships permanently, most notably the one with his closest friends, his brothers in arms.
The separation caused by his addiction weighs heavily on him; he sees the way they step carefully around him now. Frankie’s acutely aware that the person they knew him to be during his darker days might be vastly different from the Frankie they once called a comrade on the front line.
Frankie's return to the fold of his former, closest friends, is a gritty experience, filled with the raw emotions of both redemption and remorse and the heavy load they drag. The scars run deep, and some days it feels like he won't ever escape the haunting spectre of the person he used to be.
Reunions like this, are like stepping into combat where trust is always the first casualty, and he has to navigate the minefield of scepticism whilst trying not to lose a limb should one detonate in his face.
The estrangement from his military buddies has left wounds on both sides. Benny was genuinely concerned, while Will harboured resentment for the times when Frankie’s struggles had impacted the cohesion of their once tightly knit phalanx.
The camaraderie that previously thrived in the crucible of combat and beyond, has been fractured by the corrosive effects of his weaknesses. He prepares himself mentally for the conversations that lie ahead, adopting the same meticulous planning mindset he had during his time serving in Delta Force.
Although, a fat lot of good that will do.
“I’m good, doing alright.” Frankie replies in a tired monotone.
“Six months, buddy!” Benny says, knocking into him. “That’s more than alright.”
And Frankie lets a crooked smile slip from lips that are constantly downturned as of late. Benny was the only one to really check in on a regular basis, to help him move what little belongings he had into the shitty apartment the VA had assigned to him after weeks of crashing on Benny’s lumpy couch.
He’s not mad at Will for taking a step back, he gets it; the man is in love and swept up with it, which Frankie is actually pleased about. Will needs a sturdy woman to take care of him when he faces his own darkness trying to claw at him in the middle of the night.
Pope’s absence is what cuts the deepest; it's been over a year since Tom’s passing in the Andes on that fucking stupid mission, leaving them all to try and pick up the pieces without him, and each of them failing miserably in their own ways. As resilient as Benny is, he still takes the punches in the ring to help quiet the tornadoes in his mind.
Frankie’s not heard a word from Pope, except for a text message, months ago, informing him he had moved on to Australia.
“Six months? Fuck. That’s great.” Will agrees. And he seems genuinely pleased.
Frankie nods, head down as he follows along with them. He squeezes the sobriety coin inside his pocket to the point it could absorb fully into his skin.
Six months into his journey of being clean, the pull of old habits still linger and twitch at his fingers.
The holiday season, with its emotional complexities, is akin to flying in low visibility conditions. Frankie recognises the familiar dreaded terrain of festive traditions, obscured by the fog of past memories and cravings. And navigating his way through this time of year in particular, alone, is something that has stunted his rotary blades in mid-flight.
“Any chance of Pope meeting us here, early Christmas present?” Will asks.
Frankie shakes his head. “No. He’s not back.”
“Still loved up with that gorgeous chick in Aus.” Benny interjects.
“Shit. Pope in love.” Will chuckles in bewilderment.
Benny laughs. “Never thought I'd see the day.”
“What about you Fish, you patch things up with Carmela?” Will asks Frankie.
“That’s long dead in the water.” Frankie replies bitterly as he pulls skin from his bottom lip with his teeth.
“What about your kid, you’re seeing her for Christmas, right?” Will queries.
“Carmela's being… obstinate.” Frankie says.
“Carmela's being a bitch.” Benny corrects. “She got back to you yet?”
Frankie shakes his head and bites down on his cheek.
“Like I said, bitch.”
“Come on. That’s the mother of his kid, Ben.” Will interjects, softly.
“Don’t matter. She’s withholding visitation.” Benny explains.
“What the courts say?” Will addresses Frankie and he shrugs.
“Can’t afford a lawyer so we’re kinda freestylin’ it right now.” He bows his head further, almost tucking his chin to his chest, shoulders hunched up.
“You know, if you need money-” Will begins.
“Jesus.” Frankie mutters and shakes his head.
His ex-partner's decision to withhold visitation rights is a gut-wrenching blow, another barricade on the path to rebuilding a fractured life.
The pain of being separated from his daughter, especially at Christmas, only adds another layer of complexity to his struggles, testing the limits of his newfound sobriety.
It cuts deep as he squeezes round the coin tighter now, trying to drown out the voice that reminds him of all of his shortcomings.
Frankie, the single dad; the recovering addict, the deadbeat. Frankie, who can’t even afford a cheap condo or his own mattress, and can't help but feel a stabbing twinge of loneliness sweeping in beneath the sociability of some drinks on Christmas Eve with his friends.
Man, he fuckin’ hates Christmas, and all the schmaltzy shit that comes with it. Passing by windows lined with glitzy tinsel, he'd like nothing more than to wrap it around his neck and step off the stool.
He shakes the grisly thought away as his thumb runs over the familiar ridges of the coin.
Amid jokes and banter, mainly spurred on by Benny, they reach the bustling bar, squeezing through the door. A last get together before Christmas whisks them away with families and significant others, and Frankie goes back to staring at four walls on his own each night.
Frankie nervously checks his phone before he pushes in. The phone in his hand, a cockpit instrument, displaying crucial data for the upcoming flight - his daughter's presence on Christmas day - glancing at the obvious void of being left on read by Carmela.
It's cutting close to the hour, almost nine PM and he still hasn’t a clue about plans for tomorrow, so he taps out another quick message and pushes send with a growl on the cusp of his tongue.
Well? Can I see her 2morrow or not?
He shoves his phone back in his jacket pocket, along with his hands, grips around the coin in there again, and pushes into the bar after the guys.
Mismatched, but cosy furniture fills the space, from worn leather booths to tall barstools that line the crowded bar with bodies perched on them.
Laughter and lively chatter fills the air, punctuated by bursts of holiday cheer from groups engaged in boisterous and animated conversations. Behind the bar, bartenders expertly pour draught beer and craft seasonal cocktails; their hands moving in a dance of mixing, shaking, and smug pouring.
The clinking of ice cubes and the subtle hiss of carbonation adds to the melange of sounds. A tinkling of Slade echoes around the bar, muted out somewhat by the cacophony.
As Frankie navigates the crowded bar, the festive ambiance a rotor wash, swirling around him and lifting the spirits of those caught in its currents. However, beneath the surface, the turbulence of emotions echo his past experiences where clarity often comes after navigating through complex conditions.
His gaze lingers on the phone again, a lifeline dangling like a rescue hoist, awaiting confirmation that he could airlift his plans for Christmas with his daughter to safety. Instead he’s left in a holding pattern, patiently waiting for clearance to land.
Mierda.
Gritting his teeth, he dodges bodies coming at him.
Unable to find a table, the trio settle to standing at the end of the bar, squeezed in as Benny signals for the bartender as he pulls out his wallet, immersed in the festive chaos orbiting around them.
“So much for a quiet one.” Will smirks at Frankie.
“It’s fuckin’ Christmas eve, man.” Frankie responds with a shrug, taking off his cap, smoothing back his hair and settling it back on again. Curls billow out wildly behind his ears like he’s been electrocuted.
“So tomorrow’s the big day, huh?” Frankie questions.
“Yeah.” Will nods.
“You nervous?”
“Shitting myself, man.” Will says.
Glasses of whiskey are pushed into their hands by Benny. “Who’s shittin’?” He asks.
“Tomorrow.” Will explains.
“She’s gonna say yes, man. You don’t need to worry. She’s a good girl.” Frankie states taking his drink and sipping it.
He’s only met Will’s partner once and she seemed nice enough. Unmemorable, as he struggles to recall her face, but nice. The sharpness of his drink hits his tongue and warms his mouth.
“Too good for this asshole.” Benny ribs.
Frankie glances around the bar idly as Benny lets rip into his brother some more.
He’s pulled back into the conversation when he feels a light jab in his shoulder.
"Fish, when are you getting back into the dating game?" Will queries.
Frankie shrugs and his eyes find the floor again, looking at his feet. “I dunno man, I’m not exactly a catch right now.”
“Shut up, you handsome bastard. You just need to get laid.” Benny cajoles. "Fuck dating. Get you some pussy."
"I'm focusing on staying sober and being a dad right now. Or trying to be-” He’s acutely aware his phone hasn’t buzzed in his pocket.
“Fuck that bitch Carmela, man.” Benny hisses.
“I did. Look where it got me.” Frankie smirks.
“You’re on the up, Fish. Stop with the melancholy.” Benny says.
“You heard back about your licence appeal yet?” Will queries.
“They’re still reviewing it. S’been almost fourteen fuckin’ months. Got a letter last week."
“Shit.” Will says.
“Yeah. My sponsor’s putting in a good word.” Frankie explains. “Reckons it oughta get it rolling now.”
“Fuckin’ A!” Benny grins.
“I don’t wanna get my hopes up.” Frankie shrugs. “But it could be looking promising.”
“We’ll get you outta that workshop and in the air again!” Benny says.
“You still wanna fly for the Military?” Will queries, surprised.
Frankie shakes his head. “Private. Lessons, maybe for hire, that kind of thing.” Frankie explains.
“Fish has got a whole business plan mapped out.” Benny praises. “Even designed a business card.”
“You did.” Frankie corrects. “And you spelt aviation wrong.”
Benny flips him off.
“Well, I’ll drink to that,” Will says, holding out his glass. “New business venture.”
“Let’s drink to you getting engaged instead,” Frankie counters, feeling prickly. "Salud!"
They chink their glasses together and neck back the whiskey. Benny gathers the empties and leans over the bar again. “Same again?” He asks the guys.
“Yeah. I’ll be back. Gotta take a leak.” Frankie turns towards the direction of the toilets.
He squeezes past clusters of people and pushes through the door that feels sticky on the tips of his fingers.
A waft of ammonia tinged in the air, mixed with the lingering scent of various cleaning agents, assaults his senses. Dim, flickering fluorescent lights barely illuminate the small, cramped space. The walls, once painted a neutral colour, now showcase peeling paint and patches of unidentified grime.
Random graffiti and scratches mar the surface, telling tales of forgotten nights and transient patrons, and Frankie skims his eyes over them as he unzips his flies at the urinal.
Drying his hands on crunchy, blue paper towels, he pulls out his phone to check again for a message that he already subconsciously knows isn’t there. Sighing, he glances himself in the mirror and stares at his tired complexion.
The weariness etched in his expression doesn’t diminish the underlying determination. His jaw sets firm, a silent resolve evident even in the tired lines of his face, anger and frustration bubbling inside.
He takes the coin out of his pocket, staring down at it and grounding himself. Remembering to breathe as the vibrations in his skull begin to whir. He tucks it away quickly when the door opens and a couple of guys bundle in, chattering away.
The bar's atmosphere is electric, and the holiday spirit seems to amplify it with every step.
He bumps into a body on his way out of the bathroom, the encounter is a gentle collision, enough to pause him momentarily as a bright pair of eyes and gentle smile renders him still.
It takes a second for the wetness to register as it seeps through his shirt and jacket and onto his belly skin, cooling it.
“Oh shit! I’m so sorry!” You gasp at him, your glass now empty and all over this rugged stranger who’s smiling at you, wiping himself down with his large hands, although it does absolutely nothing at all, and reassuring you it’s alright.
"My bad, I should’ve looked where I was going." Frankie says, offering a sheepish smile.
"No, I regularly make a habit of being a klutz.” You assure. “You’re the innocent party.”
“In that case, I’m glad for your lack of co-ordination.”
“Smooth.” You remark with a grin, eyes twinkling at him in amusement.
“Can I get you another?” Frankie offers.
The accidental spill on his jacket becomes a metaphorical bird strike, a sudden encounter with the unexpected. Yet, much like dealing with a bird strike in flight, Frankie handles it with some flooding, composure, brushing off the impact and continuing on his course. Even if he’s running on the subconscious act of keeping true.
“What? No. I should be buying you one for ruining your shirt.”
“S’not ruined. Just a little damp.” He explains.
“Well, I’m glad. It’s a nice shirt.”
“Now who’s being smooth?”
“Dude, I live for Fleetwood Mac, okay. I would be devastated if you had to throw it away on my account.”
And suddenly Frankie’s brain envisions you wearing it, the t-shirt depicting his favourite band under his shirt and jacket. Nothing else, but his faded t-shirt that he should have thrown out months ago, as the holes under the armpits get a little wider with each wear, but he can’t bear the thought of parting with it.
He swallows dryly and tries to remember to breathe again.
“Come on, I insist.” You say. And he doesn't have time to resist or object as you promptly link his arm and drag him towards the bar.
As you wait for the attention of one of the bartenders, you tilt your head curiously to him. "So, what brings you out on this busy Christmas Eve?" You ask him.
Frankie leans in so you can hear him. “Insanity.”
“Oh, you too?” You smirk.
He chuckles. “My friend’s getting engaged tomorrow. We’re out celebrating.”
“Oh nice, he’s doomed.” You cajole and Frankie nods in agreement.
“Something like that. What about you?”
“Drinks, work colleagues. Blah. Blah.” You say.
“Well, don’t let me keep you.”
“You’re not. I can’t stand them. Besides, you're much more interesting.”
“I doubt that.” Frankie blushes.
“Oh come on. You love Fleetwood Mac. I’m already hooked.” You smile.
He smiles back at you and you notice the deep richness of his eyes stunning you for a moment. He nods just over your head as the bartender approaches, and you turn to order your drinks, breaking the spell.
“Let me get this.” Frankie insists as he pulls his wallet and thrusts a twenty into the bartender's hand before you can.
“That was supposed to be my round.” You say.
“Early Christmas present,” he confirms to you with a lazy shrug.
“You play dirty.”
“Surely that’s the only way to play.” He smirks.
“Well, thank you.” You say handing him a glass and you notice a subtle tremor in his fingers as he takes it from you.
There’s a pause between you, a moment where your mutual smiles bleed into the surroundings and turn the noise down.
You glance around the bar as you sip your drink, the colours of Christmas lights twinkling in your irises and Frankie tries his best not to stare at them. But it's difficult because he’s drawn to them, like a magpie in want of something shiny.
Smiling, you point them out in wonder. “I love all this tacky shit, don’t you?”
Frankie looks around and nods subtly. “We’ve even got mistletoe.” He nods further down the bar at a plastic sprig hanging over the oblivious revellers underneath.
“That's so cliché. I prefer the subtlety of strategically placed tinsel."
"Ah, a tinsel strategist. Now that's a title. Do you have a manual for that, or is it all instinct?" He asks.
"It's an art form, my friend. Requires a keen eye for Fung Shei and a touch of OCD."
“I’m a bauble man myself.”
You scoff into your drink, choking a little as you giggle and Frankie feels like he’s just been immolated on the spot at the sound of it tittering out of you.
“Is that a euphemism? Should I just cut my losses now and go?”
“Funny.” He smirks.
You pretend to fan yourself, "I try my best. Making handsome guys laugh is just a side gig, you know."
“It’s a look, it’s working for you.” You confirm. "I like me a bit of scruff."
“Handsome? That's the second time tonight I've heard that."
"Really? Look at you, Mr Popular. Am I encroaching on someone else's staked claim of you?"
He shakes his head. "Not at all."
"Good. I wouldn't care if I was anyway." You smile.
"Fighting talk."
"You better believe it, handsome." You chuckle.
"I mean, I’ll take it.” A small pink blush settles in over his nose.
Frankie baulks. “Well good. I haven't washed this t-shirt for like, eight days…” he laughs.
“Hot.” You laugh back. “But let’s get into the nitty-gritty here.” You say. You thwack your glass onto the bar top as you lean on it, studying him.
“Alright.”
"I bet your holiday playlist includes some seriously cheesy tunes. Care to share your guilty pleasures?" You prompt.
He laughs. "Guilty pleasures? Please, my playlist is a masterpiece. Mariah Carey's 'All I Want for Christmas' is a holiday anthem that frequents. No guilt, only joy."
"Mariah Carey? Bold choice for a man in a Fleetwood Mac t-shirt.”
Frankie shrugs. “I’m eclectic.”
“I respect the commitment. Maybe I'll have to reconsider my stance on disliking holiday music." You say. You swirl the ice around in your glass.
“You don’t like a bit of Mariah? What is wrong with you?” Frankie sneers with a grin as he raises his own glass to his mouth.
"Everything. I’m a lost cause.”
“I doubt that, querida.” He murmurs.
“So, what's your go-to holiday movie? This is crucial information." You question.
"Die Hard, obviously. It's a Christmas movie and an action masterpiece. What more could you ask for?"
"A man of macho culture, I see. I concur. Die Hard, it is. Now we just need to settle the pineapple-on-pizza debate, and we'll be golden." You smirk. “And there is a correct answer by the way…”
The banter with you stirs something raw within Frankie - he can feel it - a feeling he hasn't experienced in a while. A long while.
Your smile and the daring glimmer in your eyes at him chokes him up in a solar flare; he’s finding it hard to breathe.
It’s a gritty, unfiltered connection that cuts through the tarnished facade he often wears, but comes surprisingly natural.
The jokes and playful challenges become a form of rebellion against the loneliness that has silently plagued him.
In the midst of the crowded bar and flashing Christmas lights, Frankie finds a refuge in your shared banter - a reprieve from the weight of his own battles that have been pushed aside like the empties stacking on the bar top between you.
Your sharp wit and unabashed humour becomes a tonic for the rough edges that shape him, a remedy of a soothing salve for the scars he carries.
As Frankie leans into the quips and jokes, he finds solace in the cracks of vulnerability it exposes, instead of rushing to seal them back up.
The conversation isn't just light-hearted snaps coated in something flirtatious; it’s a reminder that, sometimes, the least expected connections are the ones that break through the walls built around ourselves, offering a chance at genuine, unfiltered connectivity in the midst of the holiday chaos.
It pulls him back sharply into reality and everything comes flooding back. Looking at you, the way you look back at him as though something incredible has landed in your lap, stunts him.
He shares another drink with you, paying for it again at your insistence that he doesn’t have to, even play fighting him to see who can get their note into the bartender's hand first. Your laugh is infectious as it warms his blood.
And then he remembers he’s left his friends hanging at the top of the bar as he catches their prying grins, gurning animatedly at him.
He can’t drag you down with him, he’s being ridiculous, selfish even.
“Okay. Yeah, I should show my face again I guess.”
“I should probably let you get back to your colleagues.” Frankie says, and turns as you hop off the stool.
He realises only now, that his phone still hasn't buzzed in his pocket.
He wonders if that’s disappointment in your voice, a subtle resonance reaching out to tug him back by the collar of his unwashed t-shirt.
“It was really nice talking to you.” You say, earnestly.
“And you.” He agrees, nodding.
“Have a good evening.” You say, with a warm smile and make your way back to your table.
“You too.” Frankie says, floundering.
Fuck.
He just let you walk away. Watches you go back to the table, no fight in him. Carmela was right, maybe he has no passion anymore.
He retreats back towards the guys at the end of the bar who are stunned and wide-eyed at his return.
“Dude!” Benny scolds.
“Did you get her number?” Will asks as Frankie approaches, hands shoved in pockets.
Frankie shakes his head and bows it again. “No.”
“Are you crazy? Go back over there and ask her for it, she clearly likes you, man.” Will encourages.
“I don’t know.”
“Fuck it. I’ll do it. I’m your wingman, Fish.” Benny knocks his drink back bracing himself for manoeuvre, but Will tugs on his bicep.
“Leave it.” He says, noting Frankie’s unease.
Frankie tosses a weary glance over his shoulder towards your direction and catches you glancing back. You smile and he smiles back thinly.
“I need another drink,” he says back to the boys.
“You alright, man?” Will says, putting his arm over his shoulder.
“Yeah.” Frankie sighs.
Although he’s pretty certain he’s sweating all over, and that Will can feel him shaking.
A while later and the boys have found a small table that they’re crowded around.
Frankie’s not sure how many he’s had, but he’s starting to feel warm and his arms are tingling from the alcohol consumption.
Something he knows he probably shouldn’t do.
“Fish,” Benny nods over his shoulder and Frankie turns to see you approaching gingerly, tossing your purse over your shoulder.
He can just hear his sponsor's nagging voice scolding him in his ear about other vices being the gateway back to the coke, Francisco. But he’s never had a problem with booze, never really getting wasted beyond all control.
He always stops when his fingers start to feel numb.
“Hi,” you say, warmly.
“Hey,” Frankie greets, immediately standing up like he’s been tasered.
You smile at the boys who look back at you grinning behind their tumblers as they sup.
“Urm, I’m about to head off. I don’t live too far from here, I just wondered if perhaps you’d want to walk me home?” You offer to Frankie.
“These streets ain’t safe for a woman on her own, Fish.” Benny pipes up and Will nudges him sharply in the rib cage.
“Fish?” You query with a smile.
“Nickname.” Frankie says with cheeks turning pink again.
“Well, you can tell me about it on the way.” You suggest with those sparkling eyes again, and Frankie swears he’s never seen a pair like them before.
They literally take his breath away.
“Uh, sure. Yeah.” Frankie says, he puts his glass down on the table. “I’ll walk you home, hermosa.”
“Great.” You smile and head towards the door.
Frankie glances back at the boys, who clearly can’t contain their excitement as they laugh and punch the air, and Frankie simply flips them the bird discreetly as he follows behind you.
“So, you’re Spanish?” You query once outside in the cool air.
“Texan. I'm from from El Paso. But beyond that it’s a mix of Mexican and some Colombian thrown in.”
“That’s cool.” You smile.
“What about you, where are you from?” He queries as he throws his hands inside his pockets. The weight of his phone tugs lightly at the frustration spiking on the edge of his mind.
“Here. Born and raised. I’ve not seen you around before though.”
“Should you have?”
“It's a small town.” You remark.
“I’ve been out of it for a while.”
“Just moved back?” You ask.
“No. I was… in the military for a while and then-” he pauses as you walk along together.
“Ah, the nickname. Fish.”
“Catfish.”
“Dare I ask?”
Frankie smiles. “Used to fish a lot with my pop growing up. Caught a big fish once, a catfish, that almost threw me overboard. It was twice my size. Told the guys about it one night when we were on duty, it kind of stuck.” Frankie explains with a wily smirk.
“Nice. What did you do in the military?” You question genuinely enthralled to hear him speak.
“Pilot. Helicopters, mostly.”
“Oh wow, you fly?”
He nods subtly. “Used to.”
“So, you’re not in the army anymore?”
“Special Ops. And no, retired.”
“You’re not old enough to retire surely,” you say with a smile.
He shrugs. “Feels like it sometimes.”
You smile at him as you clutch your hands over your purse and he walks with his hands fisted in his pockets. Grasping tightly around the coin and his phone in equal measure.
“So you live close by?” He queries.
“Yeah. A shitty apartment block on third. Work’s close by too. Glad I can walk because my car packed up weeks ago.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I'm a triple threat.” You say and he laughs.
“You not got it fixed?” Frankie enquires.
“Can’t afford it right now. It’s a sore subject.” You say bitterly.
“Say no more.” He smiles. “I can... take a look, if you want?”
You turn to him with a small, coy smile. “Do helicopter pilots know how to fix cars?”
“It’s a combustion engine. They’re all pretty much the same.” He shrugs.
“Well, then. I might take you up on that, Pilot.” You say glancing at him and he smiles.
“So, obvious question, but why are you alone on Christmas?” You ask him.
You both walk along with some comforting sense of ease. As you stroll through the quiet streets, the banter that had filled the bar now gives way to a more subdued, yet charged atmosphere.
The occasional laughter and shared glances add a layer of unspoken intimacy, a peep of vulnerability; a departure from the boisterous energy of the crowded bar you’ve just left that settles into your pores with ease.
Frankie glances at you with a knotted tongue.
"No ring, you’re not married. Unless you are, and you’re a player. But you don’t strike me as the type.”
“Not a player.” He confirms with a side smile.
"Divorced?"
"Not lucky enough to have been married yet." He confirms.
“And you’re not gay. Despite a penchant for baubles.”
He laughs. “Definitely not gay.”
“Good.” You chuckle.
“How about you? What’s your situation?” Frankie questions tentatively.
“Lonely.” You say after a few moments to deliberate, and he feels the sharpness of your choice of descriptive pierce his skin.
“I’m tired of being the awkward third wheel in my group of friends.” You say.
“You too, huh?” Frankie smiles gently at you and you smile back nodding.
And the sincerity in your eyes mirrors his own. He knows how that feels, only too well.
“Me too.” He agrees.
“Any existing Christmas plans tomorrow?” You ask as you both round off the street and down another.
“Hoping… to see my daughter.” He braves.
The unspoken truth about his life - being a single dad and probably a failure at it too - is out there now, and he wishes he could cram the scathing truths back into his mouth when you don’t say anything.
He expects you to recoil.
Expects you to say thanks, but you’ll walk the rest of your way by yourself. He comes with baggage, so much more than what your little, dainty purse is equipped to carry.
He can’t expect you to shoulder the weight of his as well.
When you allow him to hang there, suspended in the awkwardness of laying himself bare.
He expects a change in your expression, waits for it. That subtle shift that often accompanies the revelation of such personal details.
But instead, you simply nod and smile curiously; a reassuring gesture that eases the tension instantly in his shoulders.
“That’s cute. How old is she?” You query and your interest seems genuine.
“Almost two.” He replies.
“So you’re a daddy?”
“Yeah.”
“Hot.” You smirk. And he laughs.
“I don’t know about that.”
“I think so.” You confirm.
“Yeah?” He queries with raised eyebrows.
“Absolutely.”
"You got kids?" Frankie asks, feeling his cheeks burn.
You snort. "Please. I'm not insane. I can barely take care of myself."
You both laugh as you come to a stop outside an apartment block.
“So, this is me.” You say, turning to him.
“Nice.” Frankie says inspecting the building.
Your apartment block stands at the end of a weathered street, surrounded by buildings that bear the scars of time and neglect. It’s a little shabby and run down with yellowing lights that emanate from inside the lobby doors.
"It's really not nice. It's not much, but it's home, I guess." You say, clearly embarrassed about the state of it.
“That's all that matters, trust me.” Frankie says. It’s far more than he’s had of late.
“I’d invite you in, but I’ve had a bit too much to drink.” You say, sheepishly.
“I wouldn’t come in because you’ve had a bit too much to drink.” He clarifies.
“A gentleman. That’s rare these days.”
“That I am, ma’am.” He says, saluting with two fingers under his cap gently.
You rummage in your purse for your keys. “Well, thank you for wal-”
“Have dinner with me?” Frankie interrupts. “I mean, if you’d like to, I'd like to take you out for some dinner?”
You smile widely and it takes his breath from his lungs. “I’d really like that.”
“Yeah?”
You nod smiling. “Yeah. Give me your phone.”
He hands it over and you put your number in there. You then call it from his phone and pull yours out of your purse. Fleetwood Mac’s Gypsy plays as your ringtone until you silence it.
“That’s my favourite song.” Frankie smiles.
“Mine too. Told you I had good taste in music.”
The air between you both shimmers with the unspoken tension of another, new shared commonality. The banter and laughter has woven in a comfortable bind around you both, seemingly pulling you both in tighter.
Charged with a quiet anticipation, the kind that precedes an intimate moment, your eyes meet, a silent agreement passing between you both as you instinctively step forward and so does he, without hesitation.
Leaning in, the gentle press of his lips against yours is soft, breaching.
A delicate meeting of lips that convey a sense of mutual understanding, some semblance of painful hesitation lying on the outskirts, that this is truly a Christmas miracle of some kind.
The cold night air contrasts with the warmth exchanged in that fleeting touch, creating a sensation that’s both electrifying and comforting.
And mildly terrifying.
Frankie can feel himself tremble as you moan gently into his mouth, seeking you out with an explorative tongue.
His heart is racing, he’s convinced you can hear it clattering around bruised ribs as it fills his ears with a thumping bass.
Your hands clutch onto his arms, winding up the length and thickness of them gently, carefully feeling him out too.
His hands settle tentatively on your waist, pulling you into him further as he tastes you.
You lean up on tiptoes, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck as you kiss him with more fervour, enjoying the way he tastes, the way he sounds as he grunts into you hungrily.
He can feel himself stiffen, the oncoming rush of blood coursing through his body and centering in the length of his cock.
Fuck, it’s been too long since he’s felt a rush like this. One that wasn’t chemical and burned away the cilia in his nostrils.
The way his hands clutch onto you desperately as if he’s convinced you’re going to fly away. And the way you hold onto him too, trying to convince yourself that he’s real as your fingers scratch gently into the subtle greying hairs on his cheek.
You feel the visor of his cap clip your forehead and you pull back giggling a little as he chuckles. You plant another kiss on the side of his scruffy face, his beard soft and fuzzy against your lips.
“That was really nice,” you whisper in awe.
“Yeah.” Frankie agrees, his thumb stroking across your cheek.
“I’ve never kissed a Catfish before.” You muse.
He snorts and you giggle. "How was it?"
"Good. Real good." You smile. “Thank you for walking me home.”
“My pleasure, hermosa.” He kisses your mouth again, a delicate lingering smooch before you reach in to pull out your keys.
“Get yourself inside. I’ll call you tomorrow?”
He watches you walk up the steps, unlocking the door and pushing it open with your behind as you turn to smile at him.
You nod enthusiastically. “You better.”
"I will be, don't you worry." He says, smiling and blushing further.
“Merry Christmas, Pilot!” You call out to him.
He waves, smiling. Frankie doesn’t leave until the door closes behind you.
He pulls it out. There's a message from Benny that he didn’t feel come through:
He walks up the street, trying to contain the grin on his lips that now make his jaw ache. His body feeling like it could give way any second.
His phone buzzes in his pocket.
You score yet?
He shakes his head, rolling his eyes. He types out another message to Carmela, noting her lack of response, despite clearly reading his messages.
And he feels that he can finally see straight.
I’ll b ova 2morrow whether u like it or not. I’m seeing my daughter on xmas day. If u think that I won't fight u 4 joint custody, ur wrong.
His phone buzzes again. A response from her almost immediately.
FINE. U can stay for some lunch. 2pm.
Frankie smiles again, tapping out a message, but it's not a response to Carmela.
Instead, Frankie types out a message to you:
Merry Christmas, hermosa x
You message back a minute later:
All I want for Christmas is you, Pilot. Merry Christmas from me & Mariah xx
12 DAYS OF XXX-MAS MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST
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