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When the noise dies down and there is no more movement around him, Frank finally turns around to face his companion.
Marc Spector ─ or is it Moon Knight now? Mr. Knight? Frank has to admit he's never quite certain how that works, and he's never quite certain how to ask ─ is dressed in all white, as always, and he is covered in blood, not all his own. Frank knows that he, too, has blood splattered across his face; feels it leaking down from a wound in his temple and another in his thigh. But there's something far more striking about the way red seeps into Marc's suit where a bullet grazed him, where there's a splotch of red in the mask over the place where his lower lip must be. Marc says something, gestures over his shoulder, but all Frank can look at are his hands. His hands, which are protected by what was once a pair of white gloves; but now they're more red than white, and Frank has the distinct feeling that most of that blood doesn't belong to Marc Spector (Moon Knight?) at all.
"Frank?" Marc says, pulling off his mask. "Are you alright? You took a pretty hard hit to the head." He draws closer, and now his hands are on Frank's face, and. Maybe he's right about the blow to the head. Frank doesn't even think to jerk away like he usually would on pure instinct. Instead, Frank is looking at Marc's split lip, now that he can see the skin rather than just the spot in his mask. Marc's hands are gentle as he turns Frank's head to look at the rather nasty gash in his temple, and those lips twitch into a little moue of concern. "Frank, say something. You're─"
But instead of saying something, Frank leans in and presses his own lips to that little frown, his own black-gloved hand coming up to cup Marc's jaw. Marc's lips part, probably in surprise, and Frank licks away the blood on his lip, the blood in his mouth. After a second, Marc returns the kiss, and he slides that bloodied white-gloved hand into Frank's hair, pressing close. When Frank breaks the kiss, both men are panting slightly, wide-eyed and with blood-smudged lips.
"... Frank?" Marc repeats for the third time. This time, Frank thinks to reply.
"Sorry," is all he says, though. Gruff. Frank looks away. "You're right. Took a pretty hard hit."
"That's not why you kissed me," Marc replies, and he sounds entirely confident in the statement.
Frank's lips twitch; he can't decide if it's in annoyance or amusement. When did Marc learn to read him so goddamn well? "No," he agrees. "It's not."
"So why did you kiss me?" Marc prods.
Frank sighs. Shrugs, adjusting his grip on his assault rifle. They're surrounded by unconscious and dead criminals; they really should be getting out of here. He doesn't head for an exit, though, and neither does Marc, though Frank can tell he has the same thought. (When did Frank learn to read Marc so well?)
"Wanted to."
"That's it?"
"Yeah."
Marc eyes him carefully for a few seconds, then sighs. "We should go," he says, an abrupt change of subject. Frank nods. "I'll get a better look at your head in the Mooncopter." Marc gestures toward the exit, and once again, Frank finds his gaze drawn toward those bloodied gloves.
"Frank."
"Yeah," Frank says, looking up quickly, but he can tell by Marc's expression that he's been caught. Marc's lips twitch up into a soft smile.
"You can stare at my hands some more once I figure out how badly you're concussed, Frank."
Frank scowls, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck. He neatly steps over a corpse and around Marc. "Fuck you, Spector," he grumbles, and he doesn't mean to head for the place he knows the Mooncopter is waiting, but somehow, that's where he finds himself going, anyway.
"Only if you ask nicely," Marc replies, and Frank most certainly does not stumble over another corpse at the words.
It's just the concussion talking, Frank tells himself, when he finds himself thinking that he wouldn't mind the embarrassment of actually tripping if it meant he'd get to hear Marc let out another soft chuckle like that again.