Fanfic- Labels
Title- Labels
Fandom- Catch Me If You Can
Ship- none, really, but sort of Carl/Frank
Rating- PG-13
Genre- angst, sort of slash?
Warnings- angst, UNBETAED CONTENT
Wordcount- 1200
Disclaimer- I do not own Catch Me If You Can the movie, book, or play; furthermore, this is in no way related to the real person Frank Abagnale Jr.
Summary- Frank's compulsion to tear off labels becomes a problem.
A/N- This one could really be read as slash or gen.
Carl Hanratty was just about to set a timer for his oven when the doorbell of his tiny D.C. apartment buzzed. It was only six o’clock, a full hour before he’d told Frank to be there. But the Financial Crimes division had just closed a tough case, and everyone had gone out drinking, and then home to their respective families. Neither Carl nor Frank had a family to go home to, which was why he’d invited the young man over for dinner. Frank probably didn’t want to be alone, and Carl couldn’t blame him for that. He’d probably have done the same thing, in the kid’s position.
So he left the kitchen with the timer unset and opened the door to admit a very cheerful Frank Abagnale Jr., former con-man now turned FBI consultant. “Carl!” Frank grinned at him. “What’s for dinner?”
“Meatloaf, but I just put it in,” Carl told him. “You’re early.”
“Everyone left the bar. I got lonely.” Frank glanced away, his expression sad. Then his lips lifted into a charming smile again. “I thought I’d come by early. You don’t mind, do you?”
“’Course not, Frank. Go ahead and watch TV or something, while I finish up in the kitchen.”
Frank shrugged off his coat and tossed it over the back of the couch before sitting down. Carl saw a few pieces of paper fall from the coat pocket and knelt to pick them up. They were beer bottle labels, four fallen, and six more in the pocket of the coat, as he discovered upon further inspection.
“Frank,” Carl said sternly. “Are you drunk?”
“No, I only had two,” Frank said, snatching the papers from Carl’s hand and putting them back in his coat pocket. “I just took the labels off everyone else’s, is all.”
Carl sighed and let it go. He’d known about Frank’s compulsion to tear off labels since they’d met, when he’d discovered the labels torn from jars and bottles around the room in the young man’s wallet. It seemed like he couldn’t control it, and Carl had found label-less containers in every place he’d come to when chasing Frank. It was something he’d never asked about, but it worried him a little.
After a few minutes of watching TV, Frank seemed to get bored and came into the kitchen with Carl. “What’re you making?”
“Mashed potatoes, to go with the meatloaf,” Carl explained. “Why don’t you open that can of green beans?”
Frank picked up the can, rolling it between his hands, and then began picking at the corner of the label. Carl didn’t say anything about it, but continued cutting off chunks of potato into the pot on the stove. When the label was removed, Frank folded it up carefully and the put it in the pocket of his pants. Then he picked up the can-opener and opened the green beans.
Carl passed Frank a smaller pot, and the young man emptied the beans into it, then set it on the stove and turned the burner on. When the job was done, he simply stood there, tapping his fingernails against the counter as his eyes flitted around almost nervously. Carl was about to tell him to go back to the living room when Frank picked up the ketchup bottle that was sitting out on the counter and peeled the label off of this as well. Then he moved on to the container of oats Carl had used in the meatloaf, and peeled the label off of that, too.
Carl watched without commenting and privately resigned himself to the fact that he would soon be living in a label-less home. It didn’t do any harm, really; you could still tell what everything was. If doing that made Frank feel better, or something, why not let him do it?
That sentiment lasted only a little while, though, when Frank began going through his pantry. Carl set the knife and potato down and watched him, beginning to get annoyed. Frank could do whatever he wanted in his own home, but there was no reason for him to come to Carl’s apartment, as a guest, and start tearing things up for no reason. Especially considering he seemed hell-bent on tearing off every label in the whole house. He’d already gotten every can and container in the pantry and was moving on to the refrigerator.
Carl crossed his arms and glared at Frank’s unresponsive back. The young man rummaged feverishly though the refrigerator, seizing bottles and cartons and carefully, delicately picking at the corners of the labels until he could peel the whole thing off in one sheet. Carl cleared his throat in preparation to speak up and stop Frank. There was no reason for Frank to be doing this. There was no purpose; he didn’t have to do this. And he certainly had no right to go through Carl’s kitchen tearing off labels, just because he felt like it!
Then Frank got to the cabinets, and those little spice jars, the one Carl’s wife hadn’t packed when she’d left him twelve years ago. He hardly ever cooked, since he practically lived off of take-out, so most of them were still full. But still, Carl had never gotten rid of them. They were useful, when he did cook, and to be honest, he sort of liked that they reminded him of his wife. Ex-wife.
They were tiny, red-capped bottles, all filled with powders or leaves that were virtually indistinguishable. There was no telling them apart, except for the labels. Which Frank was currently peeling off.
“Frank! Stop that!” Carl grabbed the wrist of the hand that held the bottle. He realized suddenly that Frank’s fingers were trembling. The young man looked up at him and Carl saw there were tears in his eyes, and his expression was one of helpless frustration.
The tiny bottle fell from Frank’s shaking hand and rolled across the counter onto the floor. “I’m sorry,” Frank whispered. “I can’t help it.”
“It’s okay,” Carl said, having been shocked out of his anger by the young man’s tears. He released Frank’s wrist and pulled him into a tight hug.
“I’m sorry,” Frank said again into his shoulder, voice high and choked off. His still-shaking hands clutched at Carl’s shirt.
“It’s okay; it’s okay,” Carl soothed, rubbing his back gently. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to stop.”
“I want to!” Frank cried into Carl’s shirt. “I want to, really, but I can’t! Why didn’t you stop me sooner?”
“I didn’t understand,” Carl said softly. “I thought you did it because you wanted to. If you wanted me to stop you, why didn’t you say so, then?”
“I don’t know.” Frank sniffled softly. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay; it’s okay.” Carl put his hands on Frank’s shoulders and held the man at arm’s length. His eyes were red from crying, and he looked utterly miserable. Carl’s heart ached. He had no right to think those things of Frank, when this was obviously something beyond his control. Carl felt awful.
“Frank, go sit on the couch, alright? I’ll get you a glass of water.”
Frank nodded and went into the living room, sniffing a bit and rubbing at his eyes. Carl watched him go and sighed heavily. He picked up the labels that Frank had meticulously folded and piled up on the countertop, and he threw them into the trash. Then he went to get Frank a glass of water.